


Noldor Falling

by doodlebutt



Series: All the Pieces of Our Lives [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Celebrimbor Has Daddy Issues, Curufin Has Daddy Issues, Dreams and Nightmares, Everyone has issues of some kind, Family Drama, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Supportive Siblings, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change, Work In Progress, curvo is not much better, everyone has their limits, everyone hates each other to some extent, finrod is a little shit, i cant believe there are tags for that, more content warnings in chapter notes, sarcasm is a valid coping strategy, to some extent anyway, watch me find every single relevant angst tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:39:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 38,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5639539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodlebutt/pseuds/doodlebutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russingon with bonus Fëanorians. Or possibly Fëanorians with bonus Russingon. Canon-proximal, I suppose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re going to be okay.” Fingon knew it was a lie, knew even as the words left his lips that nothing short of a miracle could make this okay.

The rush of the wind drowned out his cousin’s whispered response.

***

The flight seemed to last for an eternity. Fingon’s arms grew weary with the constant responsibility of Maedhros’ safety; in such a barely-conscious, weakened state he could not be trusted to stay by his own balance on the great eagle’s back. When at last they were set down within stumbling distance of Fingolfin’s great encampment, Fingon should not have been surprised at how light Maitimo felt, at how his eyes closed when he tried to stand alone and how no word came from his thin, cracked lips as Fingon gathered him close and hurried towards the safety of his tent, heedless of the cries that rose in astonishment about them and spread swiftly across the camp.

Three days passed. Findekáno refused to leave his cousin’s side, even as rumour flew unchecked through the encampment and his father sent for him each morning and night. He would not, could not, leave Maitimo; for what if on a moment he should awake and speak some word, or slip away to Mandos unheeded once alone? No, nothing short of Eru himself could have pulled Fingon from his side in those dark hours.

The silence between the northern and southern ends of the lake was however not as absolute as Fingon had thought. The new sun was setting in a blaze of red on the third day when it happened – harsh voices and the ring of swords unsheathing, panic spreading through the camp, and a white-faced messenger breathless at the entrance of his tent, telling him the brothers had come and would not be stayed. One voice then came clear:

“Findekáno! Will you now hide like a craven from your own kin? Where is our brother?”

Fingon stood and went to the doorway, ever glancing back at Maitimo pale on the bed behind him, and hesitated in indecision before stepping halfway outside the flap of his tent. He recognised instantly the faces of his cousins, bright steel bared but unstained in their hands as they climbed the hill towards the tents.

“You should not call me craven, who saved from torment the one whom you abandoned to death!” The anger in his voice surprised even himself, and Makalaurë hesitated, turning to his brother momentarily as if to stop him. Curufinwë however pressed on unheeding, and Fingon thought with some foreboding how much like Fëanáro he had become in body and spirit alike. The brothers halted when the ground reached a level with Fingon’s tent, and the air between the three felt thick with crackling tension.

“You will not take him.”

“You will not keep him!” Curufin started forward in anger, but Maglor laid a restraining hand upon his arm and stepped forward instead.

“Cousin... Maitimo is our brother.”

“Did you show that brotherhood when you left him to perish upon Thangorodrim?” Maglor’s lips pressed to a line, and Fingon knew he was pushing them beyond what was wise with that family, but he could not stop. Not with the result of their neglect lying unresponsive in his own tent.

“You overstep your place among us.” Curufin’s eyes were become dangerously dark, and Fingon’s heart fluttered a moment with adrenaline and thoughts of his sword (left unwisely within the tent). And then it happened.

 _“Finno.”_ His eyes widened suddenly and all anger drained away – he would know that voice anywhere, even weak and cracked as it was. The brothers exchanged a glance; they had not heard what Fingon had.

 _“Finno, let them in.”_ Wordlessly he turned and stepped aside into the tent, nodding to his cousins to follow if they would. He could not stop the smile that pulled at his lips as he saw light and life in Maitimo’s eyes, though the contrast with his weary, injured body was now all the more stark. He heard a quickly stifled gasp as Maglor and Curufin filed in behind him, and the dual scrape of swords hastily sheathed.

“Maitimo...” Maglor’s usually strong voice sounded shaken and uncertain. “What...”

_“Don’t.”_


	2. Chapter 2

Fingon stayed silent throughout those painfully long minutes. It took the better part of two hours for Maglor and Curufin to skirt awkwardly around every possible question before finally conceding that it would be more conducive to healing for Maedhros to remain in one place; for now at any rate. Curufin did not restrain himself from giving him another black look on the way out of the tent, as if the bad as well as the good in this were somehow his fault. That stung Fingon’s pride somewhat, and he reminded himself that pride was a dangerous thing as Maglor lingered a moment at the exit, informing him that they would be back on the morrow – and most likely with the others too. Fingon restrained his sigh of resigned dismay until they were halfway down the hill.

Maitimo seemed asleep as he turned back into the tent, but he looked up again as Findekáno took his place once more beside the bed with two cups of water. He nodded minimally at the suggestion of more pillows and a drink, and a minute of caution and murmured apologies followed as every movement caused some kind of pain, small or not so small. At last he was propped relatively upright, and Fingon finally broke the silence.

“They won’t be gone for long.”

“I know.” Maedhros took a sip of his water and made a slight face, not protesting when Fingon took the cup gently from his shaky left hand. “You had best learn some diplomacy if you want to keep me here much longer.” He looked up then, and Findekáno was surprised to see the ghost of a smile on his face despite the exhaustion and pain which was written there clearly also. He managed a small smile in response.

“I do not think that all the diplomacy in Middle-Earth would suffice to tame your family, Maitimo.”

“Perhaps not, but nothing would be lost in the trying.”

It was small talk and they knew it; questions lay behind Fingon’s lips like wild things that could not suffer to be contained, but the thin layer of bright denial on Maedhros’ features told him all he needed to know regarding just how well those questions would be received. And so they talked and were silent in turn until the growing stars were outshone by the rising Moon, and Fingon realised that unconsciousness did not always count as rest for those in need of healing. He looked to Maitimo, meaning to tell him to close his eyes and take some rest, and smiled when he saw him already sleeping. Then carefully and gently he clasped the thin left hand in both his own, willing warmth and light into the cold frail figure before him and trying not to think about what had taken it away in the first place. Almost it seemed that Maitimo’s face looked less pale – but then his lips parted and a quiet sound of fear slipped out, and even as Findekáno frowned and hesitated his breath came in short, fearful gasps and a sheen of sweat broke across his brow.

“Maitimo...?” There was no response; the tent was eerily silent now save for the ragged sounds of breaths filled with terror and pain, and Fingon almost called for the healers there and then – this was unknown to him, this was not supposed to happen – but at his movement to get up Maitimo’s eyes flew wide open, searching around the tent unseeing in frantic confusion for he knew not what, and suddenly he moved to rise from the bed, struggling against his own weakness.

“Maitimo!” A gasp; and finally those wild eyes found Findekáno’s face, and he did not speak for a long minute. Then:

“Do not let me fall asleep.”

Fingon only nodded, and tried to conceal his own fear.


	3. Chapter 3

Barely two weeks had passed before he had to go. The brothers would not be delayed any longer; Maitimo must be with his kin, they said, with dark looks at those around them, and Fingon concealed with difficulty the flash of anger those words kindled within him. For was he not kin to Maitimo also, and perhaps more besides? But this he could not say; not even that it was too soon, that they had yet to speak of anything beyond those meaningless words that filled time but not hearts – and that he was afraid. Yes, Findekáno the Valiant was afraid, for he knew too well the doom that lay on those brothers, and his heart warned that they would be sundered long at this parting.

Maglor it was who came to collect him; the others waited at the edge of the encampment, he told Fingon coolly. Then he folded his arms and waited, leaning against the outside of the tent as Fingon helped Maedhros to dress and make ready.

“I am not a child, Finno.” Their voices were low, and more was said with looks than words.

“Nonetheless you must suffer yourself to be helped, for a time at least.” Maitimo’s sigh was quiet and bitter, and Findekáno regretted the words immediately.

“I cannot let them see me like this.”

“How then would you proceed? For I cannot come with you -”

“Why not?”

“Maitimo – they hate me well enough already without further actions to encourage it.”

“They do not hate you!” He sighed again. “One day you may understand; it is not hatred but guilt and resentment and the lingering curse of our fathers’ own rivalry that drives them to this. That drives us all...” He looked away and Fingon sighed as he buttoned the soft tunic over his chest. (He was helpful and remote, keeping the distance between fingers and skin. It was not the same. Perhaps it never would be.)

“I had not heard that there was any difference.” At this pale anger flashed across Maitimo’s eyes and he stepped back from his cousin, ignoring the slight tremble in his still-weak legs.

“Then you have heard nothing.”

“Maitimo -”

“No. I have heard enough.” His tone was cool now, and bitterly Findekáno regretted bringing the rift of their fathers between them once more. Silence stretched between them, and Fingon was as ever the first to break it.

“What will you do now?”

“The south side of the lake is still ours. Perhaps within the season we shall remove to a more easterly region which Makalaurë has told me of, but before then I must meet with your father. There are matters which lie between us that should be discussed and set to rights.” Fingon nodded and swallowed; he did not wish to be the one to initiate the goodbye. Outside he heard Makalaurë sigh loudly and begin to hum a tune.

“Maitimo, I -”

“Not now.” The tone was not soft, but for a moment Fingon thought he caught a glimpse of something else in those tired eyes, something which gave him hope as it had ever done. “Not here.” He nodded once more, and with a swift movement clasped Maitimo’s long cloak around his shoulders with the shining eight-rayed star.

“Go well, cousin, and take thought for your healing still.”

Maglor pushed the tent flap open and leaned in, one eyebrow raised and a fall of dark curls across the side of his face.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Maedhros turned and looked at his brother, and Fingon recognised the set of determination in his face as he walked out of the tent unaided and alone. And with a last measured, unreadable look at Fingon, Maglor was gone too.

Findekáno sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands, refusing to acknowledge a single one of the thoughts and emotions that crowded about him. _Not now,_ he told them, _not here._

Some other time, perhaps.


	4. Chapter 4

Mereth Aderthad, they called it – the Feast of Reuniting. Fingon had been by his father’s side throughout the preparations, ensuring that every last detail was as it should be and that their settlement was ready to receive such a gathering. The new tongue of Beleriand still felt strange on his lips, and he wondered if the visiting Sindar would judge him to have learned it well enough. But he wondered more who the sons of Fëanor would send to the feast – and if he would at last see Maitimo again. The years of the Sun were shorter than those of the Trees, but still it felt like too long since the six brothers had left the lake – though it had certainly been a move of great diplomacy, and sorely needed on both sides if the healing of their feud was to last. And it had; from a distance communication and cooperation both had improved, and their watchful peace had continued.

Yet now, on the night before the guests would begin to arrive from all directions, Fingon felt apprehension twist inside him. His imagination was running circles around all attempts at reason; every line of thought drew back to red hair and bright eyes and so many things unsaid, and he knew not how the intervening years would have changed Maitimo, nor whether he would be glad to return – or even if he would come at all.

Findekáno did not sleep that night.

***

Morning brought a golden sunrise, breaking with sheets of pale dawn that painted stripes of green over the land at the mountains’ feet. Fingon watched the East with steady eyes, alone on a low ridge of bare stone behind and above the silent anticipation of the tent-filled swathes of grass. The wind stirred and tugged at his golden braids; he had spent the sleepless night plaiting and re-plaiting until they met the standard expected for such an occasion (and his own high standard besides, the standard he had not held himself to for fifteen of these new years).

Was that a small line of figures, far away on the edge of the plains?

It was.

Two? Three? He waited; they moved slowly closer.

Two, on horseback.

One taller than the other.

One with dark curls and a golden harp.

One with a flowing cloak and red hair which now reached his shoulders once more.

He held the reins with his left hand.


	5. Chapter 5

The sound of the feasting carried out across the lake and echoed in the foothills of the mountains. Many had come; more than the Noldor had expected or hoped - from almost every place they had a name for, in fact. The Sindar seemed satisfied with the overall command of their language, and songs new and old filled the tents and halls that stretched from the lakeside to the shadow of the mountains. The moon was riding high, and everything below was silvered with a calm, still sheen – at odds with the sounds of joy and merriment that spilled out into the night.

Inside Fingolfin’s tent the revelry was at its highest. Laughter and song filled the air, and Maglor’s skill with words and meaning had already given them many songs of Valinor in the new Sindarin tongue. Fingon drained the last of his wine from the goblet and began to weave his way through the crowd in search of more. He felt pleasantly warm and only a little drunk – the night was just beginning, and it promised to be one to remember. He murmured an apology to a strange golden-haired Elf whose wine he almost upset in passing, and turned in haste to exit the situation – only to find himself colliding with a very familiar figure who was far too tall to be one of the Sindar.

“Careful, Findekáno; what will your guests think?” The voice was warmer and deeper than he remembered, and the arm that had caught him when he stumbled felt strong and sure. He lifted his eyes to Maitimo’s face and smiled dizzily, overwhelmed for a moment with relief and happiness. Gone was the shadow he had saved from Thangorodrim; here again was Fëanáro’s firstborn, confident and self-assured, standing tall among the crowd. Too late he saw the raised eyebrow and strange quirk of Maitimo’s lips and quickly stepped back, reordering his thoughts and trying to come up with a suitable response.

“They will think that I rejoice to see my cousin again, and rightly so.” Now Maitimo smiled too, and everything seemed to turn to hazy gold around the edges.

It was probably the torchlight. Either that, or Fingon was more drunk than he had previously thought.

***

Later, they sat outside on the grass by the lake and talked. Wine and the pleasure of so many new meetings and alliances had loosened their tongues, and they spoke of many things – the politics and difficulties of guarding the March, the ever-present threat from the North, the explorations done by Amras in the southern forests; and they spoke of Fingolfin’s attempts to win over the Sindar, of negotiations and diplomacy and how glad they all were that Fëanor’s sons were protecting the East (and thus out of the way of those delicate situations that required actual tact and respect for others). And then they fell silent, and lay for a long while watching the stars.

Neither wished to approach the next subject, but the necessity of the question beat down on Fingon like the noontime sun.

“And what of you, cousin?”

“What of me, Findekáno?”

“You seem... Well.”

“I am well enough.” Fingon looked up at him then, and saw the light in his eyes like fire from a distance, that light which no torment could possibly extinguish.

“Maitimo...” Those strange, half-fey eyes met Fingon’s, and the words faded on his lips _(he had not felt like this since Valinor, surely this was all far away and long ago to them now)_ before he could speak them.

“Finno.”

And then warm lips brushed his own, and the world stopped for as many seconds as it took for Maglor to walk out of the nearest tent and catch them like children in the grass.


	6. Chapter 6

Instantly Maedhros was on his feet, eyes alight and daring his brother to say anything against them. Fingon scrambled up from the grass in the next second, cheeks flaming as he took in the expression of shock and disgust on Maglor’s face. The eldest sons of Fëanor stared each other down for a long moment; then without a word Maglor turned on his heel and stalked away, black curls bouncing angrily about his shoulders. Maedhros followed him without a backwards glance, almost at a run despite his long legs, and Fingon just stood by the lake and wondered abstractly what this would do to his father’s alliances. He refused to think of any other effects this disaster could have.

“Makalaurë, listen to me -”

“Nelyo, I have just about had enough of your ridiculous disregard for our customs and history.” Maglor did not look at him, instead holding his head high and keeping his eyes fixed upon his destination – the main tent of the feast, where Fingolfin sat in splendour as High King of the Noldor.

“Just listen – wait, think what you are doing!” Maedhros grew pale as he saw where his brother was headed, and his raised voice brought a few strange glances from the guests – not least because they were now speaking Quenya rather than the more universal Sindarin (and a good thing too; some things were much better kept behind the language barrier). Now Maglor turned with anger in his eyes and quickly pulled his brother aside into a small, empty tent. His voice was a low hiss of rage, as like to poison as his songs were to honeyed wine.

“You bring shame upon us all. I could tell them – I should tell them! Yes, see here – see Fëanáro’s eldest, caught in a summer dalliance with his own cousin!” He spread his arms wide in mockery of grandeur, and his voice grew louder. “See how he brings down our noble houses and sullies our right to the kingship!” Fire blazed in Maedhros’ eyes at that, and his left hand twitched towards his concealed sword.

“The kingship is no longer ours to claim!”

“No, and why is that, brother? Was it to mend old grievances, as you would have us all believe? Or was it for ‘love’ -” he spat the word “- of our valiant cousin, that your ‘Finno’ might have what you no longer had the strength to uphold?!”

“It was not for want of strength that I did what was right!”

“I fail to see how the decision to willingly forfeit our inheritance could ever have been right to anyone but a lovesick idiot!”

Ringing silence filled the tent. Maitimo was quiet and calm when he broke it.

“If that is all you now think of me, then by all means take your leave and depart.”

“Nelyo -”

“You have made yourself quite clear, brother. Go wherever you want, tell whomever you want – it matters not. If you – indeed, if all the Noldor should decide I am no longer worthy as ally or captain, then I shall go my own way. But -” and Maglor saw now the fire still burning in his brother’s eyes despite his eerie calm, “this much I foretell: without me your war will be long and bitter, and should I by chance or design retrieve what we fight for, not one piece – not one sliver of light nor glimpse of unstained beauty - will I share with those who shunned me for what I will not change.”

Their eyes met again, and Maglor thought him fey and cold, and yet knew this would not be altered by any plea of his or threat of secrets spilled. And he knew also that Maedhros spoke the truth – and that without him they would surely fare many times worse in whatever was to come. He nodded once, and quickly.

“This will not be heard of again, not at least from me. But brother – in your place I would exercise restraint and caution. Next time it may not be me who walks by you under the stars.”

Maedhros studied his face without speaking. He recognised Maglor’s carefully blank expression, seen many a time when he would try to conceal some action or thought from another, and so practised that those outside their house could no longer tell it from the truth. But he deemed that for now all it concealed was those emotions he had seen plainly by the lake, and he nodded at last in return. Without further word he turned and left.

***

Fingon had returned to his tent almost as soon as the brothers had left. He did not think he would see Maedhros again, and he had no wish to return to the festivities after that humiliation. He sat on his bed facing the canvas wall, face buried with shame in his hands, and so silent was his visitor that he stayed lost in thought until he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. Quickly he turned and half-rose, eyes wide as he saw who it was that had come.

“What -”

He was cut off mid-question by a kiss. Hard and passionate it was when compared with the lakeside, and he could taste Maitimo’s anger and resentment at his brother in the set of his jaw and in the movements of their lips together – he had always found kissing to be a wonderful way of reading emotion, and this was no different. His eyes closed as the hand moved from his shoulder down his back, and he reached up to tangle his own in that beautiful hair that seemed in the candlelight to be made from fire itself.

They broke apart, briefly, as the edge of the bed caught his knees and pulled them both down, and he saw flames in Maitimo’s eyes and knew better than to ask what had befallen. And then they were kissing again, and the night was lost in a haze of red and gold and half-glimpsed memories of times long past – this was Middle-Earth now, and though there were echoes of Aman in everything they did, still it was a place all its own. Their union now felt stronger, more real, more desperate – Findekáno knew somehow that nothing here could last, and so it burned the brighter while it could.

And so did they, and all the changes and the sorrows that had come to pass since the last time were in their kisses, and all the promises of a future fulfilled and bright were in their eyes.

They lay together, afterwards, and did not speak.


	7. Chapter 7

The constant rush of adrenaline closed Fingon’s ears to all but the nearest sounds, and the hyper-focused alertness of his mind sharpened the small circle of battle about him to an almost unbearable clarity. Nothing mattered but the next foe, he could feel nothing but his own harsh, quick breaths and the constant, consistent weight of his sword and shield, but somehow he knew they were progressing across the field. Somehow he could sense the other half of the counter-attack, far out of sight but less distant now, and he knew that the tide was turning in their favour.

The thought hovered for a brief second on the edge of the bright flame of his mind, and dissipated without being acknowledged. He could not afford that luxury, not now when each swift parry and attack might easily be his last. But for now he was strong, and not yet tired, and the hope of their victory filled him with joy that was better by far than any rest.

Time passed in a blur, and they pressed on.

***

Maedhros refused to look at the gates.

They had driven the Orcs back, and back again, pursuing them over the trail of their own destruction across Ard-Galen towards Thangorodrim. The end was here – and it would prove bitter indeed for the Orcs of Morgoth, after such a spectacular rout. He had led the forces of the March himself, in the van as a captain should be, and though he had at first been wary and fearful lest he fail at this first test of his new skill, the sword in his left hand had proved just as keen and deadly as ever it had been in his right. Curufinwë was a good teacher (despite, or perhaps because of, his pride and unwavering high standards), and Maedhros had been unrelenting in his persistence at their practice. And it had paid off.

And now they were here. Again.

The Orcs fled before him now; rumour had spread quickly among the host of the terror that Fëanáro’s eldest had brought with him, and besides they knew their day was over beyond any hope of victory. Maedhros felt white fire course through him as he entered the thickest part of the battle, alert and deadly as he had never been before, and everywhere he looked the Orcs drew back from the fell light in his eyes even as he hewed them down. But he would not look up.

He cleared a path before and around him, working ever forward towards the bright blue and silver that was now within sight, the clear sign of their victory even within sight of –

A silent, muffled roar began to grow in his ears as the shadow of the peaks fell upon the host. The Sun was setting once more, and every hint of darkness was lengthening and growing despite their valour and the bright promise of victory. He focused everything he had on the immediate press of the battle, on the next Orc, the next, the next –

_Don’t look up._

He looked up.

***

Fingon could see him now, could see the bright flash of his hair standing out above the clamour and press of the battle and the glittering sword flashing faster than the eye could follow in his left hand. Little glances were all he spared himself, brief glimpses as they drew ever closer to one another – _must not become distracted, must not let this focus slip_ – but they were enough. Closer and closer; each glance showing less distance between them, less of the battle to fight through (though it was at its thickest here, Fingon should have expected that), less –

He wasn’t there.

No, he was – it was the bright sword that had dropped, the effortless fluidity that had stilled – Fingon slashed through the final press with that familiar, unforgettable desperation burning through him, and pulled Maitimo back with rough, shocked force in the final second before the stroke that would have brought him down. The ambitious Orc did not survive the second after.

***

Sound and sight rushed back with such overwhelming force that for a long second Maedhros did not know where he was. All he could process was strong arms around him and the flash of gold on black as a familiar face (pressed close but not close enough) did something at his side – and then everything else fell back into place, and he gasped as he found his left hand empty and his sword gone.

“Maitimo?” Finno’s voice was breathless and distracted, and he could hear the battle reflected in his strong, almost angry tone. “Do you have your sword?”

“I – I do not know, I think -” He took a deep breath and pulled himself away from the arms, stepping back and lifting his shield as he cast about desperately for any glimpse of his sword. He realised that Fingolfin’s companies were all about him now, and he tried to keep back the dizzying humiliation that threatened to overwhelm the need to find his damned sword, or any sword he could hold and use – he was of no more worth here than a child without one! He had failed, even on the brink of victory, and everyone would know it – everyone who mattered.

With a gasp of relief he caught sight of his sword lying in the mud and dived for it, ducking under attacks and avoiding everything he could possibly avoid. And then it was in his hand, and he was back on his feet beside Fingon (as it should be, as it should always have been), and the last of the Orcs fled screaming before them as the world righted itself once more and he remembered not to look up.

***

As it turned out, only Fingon himself had truly noticed what had happened. The other Elves around them had been far too preoccupied with the Orcs to give much thought to what Fëanáro’s eldest was doing in Findekáno’s arms without a sword for half a minute. Still that did not dull the shame that Maedhros felt as they rode back towards the Gap, where Maglor and Caranthir were waiting. This would be a meeting of victory and of strategy, and he knew he had now been accepted in truth as a leader in battle – by all except one, perhaps.

They had shared only a few minutes alone in the encampment after the final victory. Fingon had been called elsewhere, with duties to his father and thoughts of ordering their forces for the eradication or capture of any stragglers they should come across. Maedhros had not spoken, except to thank him briefly, and the look of warm pity in Findekáno’s eyes had been more than he could bear. He had not looked back, not then as he walked away or at any time after as his host rode back across the plains – why look back to the source of all the pain and failure which had marred their victory for him?

One glimpse had been enough – he knew he was not ready to face those gates. Not now; perhaps not ever.

What would his brothers say, if they knew?

Amras would understand. He always did. But they must never know.


	8. Chapter 8

“Maitimo, you need to rest.”

It had been a week now since the Dagor Aglareb, and the Sons of Fëanor were encamped somewhere in the Gap, along the road to Himring where they would make plans and take counsel with a delegation of Fingolfin’s forces in a month’s time. They were in no great hurry and for the most part had gone slowly, letting their returning army and the household of Himring pass them by until the Fëanorians were travelling alone. The six of them now were grouped around a small campfire, some standing and some sitting, and Maglor was berating Maedhros for not having slept or taken rest since the battle’s end.

“I assure you, I am perfectly fine.”

“That’s a lie and you know it, Nelyo.” Curufin’s tone was sharp, and reminded Maedhros far too much of their father for comfort. He sighed and turned away, intending to go back to his tent and indulge in what Caranthir had termed ‘brooding’ (rather strange that he had been the one to coin the term that best described himself, Maedhros thought, but then perhaps the Naugrim were given to ‘brooding’ also, and that was why they got along so well?). Amras, however, was not about to let him leave so easily. He got almost to the entrance of his tent before noticing his younger shadow, and stopped with a sigh but did not turn.

“Amras, please go back to your brothers.”

“You are my brother.”

“You understand my meaning perfectly; there is no need to be difficult about it.”

“I’m not a child any more, Nelyo.”

Silence followed this, and Maedhros felt guilt wash over him once more as the events behind those words made themselves known again in his tired mind.

“Just go.”

He had not meant to be harsh, but it seemed that way to Amras as he watched his eldest brother disappear inside the tent. With a sigh he sat down on a large, mossy stone to wait. If Nelyo was truly going to sleep at last, he knew what would follow.

***

_The soft voice raised goosebumps on Maitimo’s skin, sweet and honeyed with a vicious undercurrent of veiled malice. Darkness – no, Unlight, veiled his sight, and nothing whatsoever could be seen no matter how hard he blinked and strained with eyes wide and desperate. But he could hear, and smell, and taste, and he could feel. He felt cold metal at his wrists and ankles, something wet running down his aching ribs, and something far too radiantly warm to be natural in that grim place standing before him. He heard the scrape of metal on stone as that something sharpened a knife of some kind – a knife, or something worse – and the ashen smell and taste of burning found its way to that cold air from somewhere far off._

_“Nelyafinwë, was it not? Your...father-name.”_

_Maitimo did not answer._

_“Oh come now, let’s not play shy... Would you prefer me to address you as others have? Perhaps... Maitimo? Or if you’d prefer... Russandol?” His voice, sickening and perfect, changed on that last word to a near-flawless mockery of another’s (one he had thought never to hear again, and most certainly not here) and Maitimo despite himself cried out, closing his eyes for a moment and willing the horror of the place away. But a low, silken chuckle insinuated itself into his mind by some way that seemed to bypass his ears completely, and out of the Unlight he saw a single red flame._

_“Here now, look at that... Is that your littlest brother come to play?”_

_Maitimo choked back a sob, and the pain began._

_It began at his hands, the fingertips and palms, and at his feet too, toes burning and peeling with flames of Sauron’s conjuring. He did not scream, not when he knew this particular game so well – he knew his voice would be raw and painful by the end no matter what, but losing control now would only add to that pain. As the flames licked up his wrists they began to fade (though the pain did not), and he saw then, familiar and inevitable as always, the pale blade with the paler fire. And illuminated by it as if by a flickering lightning-cloud, he saw a lock of flaming orange hair and an eye with a gleam of madness. He met its gaze as calmly as he could manage – he knew exactly what came next, he was ready for it –_

_The face changed._

_It was not Sauron. Black hair fell into the light of the flames, black hair laced with gold, and those blue eyes held such a look of sorrow and pity that the breath caught in Maitimo’s throat and he could not cry out, only watching as his tears blurred the shadowed figure. And then the illusion – it was an illusion, he had to hold on to that fact – it stepped closer, and a golden-black braid brushed Maitimo’s cheek and shoulder as the knife met his skin and began its work._

_And then he did scream._

“Nelyo! Nelyo, wake up!” The voice was desperate and real and there was something shaking him, pulling him, and when his eyes opened he saw a red flame – but no, it was red hair in torchlight, and there was noise, someone was crying out – and when he drew in a breath that felt like it burned he realised it was him, and it stopped. And then he realised he was shaking, and his face was wet, and there were arms around him and Amras was murmuring something meaningless but comforting, and gradually things that included his breathing began to slow down and he sobbed quietly, trying desperately to push the nightmare back where it belonged with the locked-away memories that had been forcefully unleashed one week ago.

“Maitimo, shh, Nelyo, it’s gone, we’re here, we’re awake...” He nodded and swallowed, wiping his face even as more tears escaped and trying to pull his usual calm facade back into place. But it wasn’t working, he was still on the edge of falling apart, and all he could do for a long while then was just hold on to his brother and remember how to breathe. Dimly he heard the rustle of cloth and a wordless exclamation, but he did not look up even as he felt Amras sit a little straighter.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Káno, with all due respect – get out.” A pause, silent and yet full of meaning. “Now.” His tone left no space for argument, and at any other time Maedhros would have wondered to see Maglor defer to their younger brother so quickly, but the soft swish of the tent flap closing behind him was all it took to break the tension and loose a fresh wave of shuddering sobs.

It passed, however, as he knew everything must. His senses cleared and reality reaffirmed itself as right here, right now, and nothing else; the shadows shrunk to just that: shadows, and when Amras offered him a drink his hand was almost steady as he took it. They did not speak, not until Maedhros’ face was clean and dry and he was sitting calmly on the bed next to Amras, no longer in need of support or comfort.

Even then, the words did not want to come, but back in Mithrim Amras had insisted that talking was the key, and in the end it had helped him to close the door on the darkness. Now his little brother (not so little or so happy any more, something whispered) waited patiently for him to break the silence, and though it had been long indeed since they had last sat like this Maedhros felt the familiarity of it all too keenly.

Before Mithrim, of course, it had been Maedhros himself who had cajoled Amras to break his silence, to let the words out with the hurt, and eventually it had worked. And that detail was the lone factor which allowed him to share this pain and humiliation – that not so long ago he had done the same for Ambarussa.

And so, quietly and carefully, Maitimo began the cathartic telling of the latest piece in his puzzle of horrors.


	9. Chapter 9

“Well, that could have gone worse.” Fingon sighed and refilled his empty cup with the last of the wine, raising it with a nod to the door their father had recently departed through. Across the table Turgon leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh, stretching his arms above his head and closing his eyes.

“What you mean to say is: that could only have gone worse if our cousins were here also.”

“I don’t particularly want to imagine that.” Fingon drained the cup and relaxed at last, flicking a crumpled piece of paper away from his place at the table and looking up at his brother. Turgon smiled as he returned all four legs of his chair to the stone floor and raised an eyebrow at Fingon’s expression.

“Something bothering you, brother?”

“Hmm?”

“I mention our cousins in passing, and your expression within seconds is the picture of distraction. Something I should know about?” Fingon blinked and frowned, evidently trying to think of a suitable response, and Turgon sighed in exasperation. “You know it’s painfully obvious, right?”

“What?” Fingon snapped back into alertness, staring at his brother and hoping his expression showed more confusion than fear. Turgon only smiled and tapped his fingers on the stem of his empty cup.

“Don’t worry, my reaction will be better than Makalaurë’s.”

“What?!”

***

“Maitimo, that could not have gone any worse had you tried to make it so.”

“I know. Please pass the wine.”

Maglor sighed and reached across the table to pour. Maedhros let out a huff of irritation and half-rose, pulling the bottle from Maglor’s hand and taking a long drink from it. Maglor blinked and raised an eyebrow but did not respond; only reached for the last unopened bottle and opened it himself.

For a long time the brothers sat in silence. The candles along the centre of the table dripped dark wax onto the cloth, adding to the stains of food and spilled wine. The diplomatic dinner meeting had not been a success, and on reflection it had probably been a mistake to put six Fëanorian brothers in the same room after a stressful battle and arguably more stressful journey. Tempers had run high, old grievances had been dragged up to lie unattractively on the table amidst the dinner, and the fun had really started when Caranthir had brought up not one but two unforgivable subjects. Smashed glass and dark wine stains attested to the reception of his comments.

“Nelyo, are we ever going to talk about what happened?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be obtuse, of course you do.”

Maedhros looked at the ceiling as he drank some more wine and did not answer.

***

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Finno.”

“I -”

“I was there, alright? They were hardly talking quietly; I heard the whole thing -”

“What whole thing?”

“Oh, get over yourself, you know exactly what thing.” He paused. “The Mereth Aderthad? On the grass by the lake?” He nodded when Fingon’s eyes widened in dismay. “I heard the argument too, though I assume you’d escaped by that point -”

“I - you... Are you going to tell Father?” Fingon’s voice was almost steady, but the shock and anxiety which he managed to keep out of it was clear on his face.

“What? Of course not!” Turgon shook his head and cast about the table for more wine, wrinkling his nose when he found none. “I just wanted to tell you, so you don’t have to make excuses or lie any more. I mean, not in general, you’ll still need to do the excuses and the lying in day-to-day life, but if you ever need to actually, you know, talk to someone -”

He was cut off by the door opening, and so missed the look of surprise and gratitude on Fingon’s face.

“Are you boys sharing secrets without me?” Aredhel settled herself comfortably into their father’s seat and poured generous amounts of wine for everyone out of the bottle which had conveniently arrived with her.

“Actually we were just -”

“It’s alright, Finno, she knows.”

“She – what?!” Fingon looked even more shocked, so much so that Aredhel started laughing with a mouthful of wine and had to take several moments to compose herself. Turgon smirked and passed her a small cloth before speaking.

“Unlike certain branches of this family tree, siblings of the Nolofinwëan line tend to care quite conspicuously about each other’s happiness.” Aredhel nodded, now fully composed and no longer in danger of staining her dress.

“We know it has to stay a secret, and we’re not planning on changing that.” She looked between her brothers, one smiling and calm, the other wide-eyed and still not quite believing what he was hearing. “But Finno, it doesn’t have to stay a secret between us. We know – I mean, how could we miss it? You two...” She smiled and shook her head. “No-one else will find out unless you want them to - or unless you do something idiotic again - but you can talk to us now at least.”

Fingon was speechless for several moments. How different could two sides of the same family possibly be? Not for the first time (nor the last), he was beyond grateful for his siblings - and he could not think of a single way to tell them.

***

“I told you, Káno, I’m not going to talk about this.”

“Just because you think I won’t understand -”

“It doesn’t matter if you understand or not, I’m still not going to talk about it.” Maglor pressed his lips together and took another long drink from his bottle of wine in response.

“You should.”

“I have; I’m not going to repeat myself.” Maedhros mirrored the movement, almost emptying what was left in his own bottle. Maglor ran a hand through his curls in frustration and sighed heavily, looking everywhere except at his brother.

“You’ve talked to Amras maybe, but what about the rest of us? Nelyo, we – we’re worried about you, he doesn’t tell us anything -”

“He doesn’t tell you?”

“No!” Maglor let out a breath that was very much like a hiss and put his wine down with a sharp movement that rattled the nearby cups and plates. “He’s told us nothing, all this time, and neither have you – not one word, not a single hint of what you’ve been going through -” he shook his head and stood up, forcing Maedhros to meet his eyes, “- we’re your brothers too, Nelyo!”

Maedhros looked away once more as he finished his wine.

“If Father were here -”

“Káno -”

“For once in my life would you let me speak?!” He took a breath and, finding no resistance, went on. “You used to listen to him. We all did – we used to talk about things properly, though that was mainly – mainly mother’s doing, really -” Maglor blinked and wondered if he was more drunk than he’d realised; he felt oddly light and something was blurring the edges of his vision in a disorientating sort of way. Across the table, he saw Maedhros put down his empty bottle and get up, some kind of concerned frown on his face, but he ignored him and tried to steady himself on the table instead – this was ridiculous, he was behaving like a child and it was ruining his argument.

“Káno?”

He sat down, and realised that he should not have been shocked when tears spilled down his cheeks.


	10. Chapter 10

Curufin half-expected the knock on his door; he could sense the emotional edge carried even in those few clipped sounds and sighed as he put his notes aside.

“Come in, Káno.” The door opened a fraction to reveal dark curls and red-rimmed eyes, and Curufin sighed in exasperation. “How did I know it was you? You were the only one who didn’t leave our dear Nelyo to it – you wanted him to talk.” The last word came out with no small amount of bitterness, and Maglor slipped silently into the room as the door closed behind him. “You wanted him to tell you about what happened on the road that night, and he didn’t want to. You’re good at this, brother, but not that good. So instead you broke your own facade through trying to lower his – do I speak near the mark?” Only then did he look up, eyes piercingly bright and unreadable in their emotion. Maglor muttered something in acquiescence and sat down on the untouched bed across the room from his younger brother. Curufin continued to scrawl almost unintelligible diagrams and letters on his notes, all but ignoring Maglor as he waited for their conversation to begin.

“I don’t understand why he won’t talk to me.”

“Really?” Curufin set down his pen with precision and looked up at Maglor once more.

“He always used to -”

“Almost nothing that used to be true has stayed that way.”

“He talks to Amras.”

“ _Of course_ he talks to Amras.” Maglor said nothing. “Káno, you really can be a petulant idiot sometimes.”

“Curvo -”

“Listen to yourself. You sound like a whiny child with no knowledge of the world.” At this Maglor looked up, hurt and anger in his eyes, but Curufin continued smoothly. “I would not speak so unless I had confidence that you are more than this – and I do. You have been our leader through times of hardship and uncertainty, and under such circumstances you could easily have done much worse at it.” His lips quirked in a brief half-smile, and Maglor did not attempt to interrupt. “But you must understand that Nelyo cannot share this with us. We have no comprehension of what he has suffered, and no real understanding of the repercussions of such trauma.” He met Maglor’s eyes then, and saw the reluctant understanding that he had looked for. “Yet more than this you know that he cannot appear weak. The battle was the test of his body, and that he passed. But us – we are the constant test of his mind.”

“What do you mean? We’re his brothers -”

“Exactly. He is the first of us, the eldest, the leader and father-figure,” the slight pause and broken eye contact between the brothers was ignored by both of them, “and as such he cannot...fall apart in front of us. He cannot expose to us the reality of his trauma, the depth of the injuries to his fëa – not unless he wishes to risk losing the respect he has always been accorded amongst us.”

“But we wouldn’t -”

“He doesn’t know that. And if we told him, do you really think he would believe us?”

Silence filled the room like a thick cloud, and Maglor blinked away the tears which threatened to cloud his vision anew.

“What about Amras?”

“Really? Have you forgotten the long road from Losgar?”

The silence became painful, with edges like flames.

“Of course I have not.” Maglor’s voice was quiet and thick with unshed tears.

“Then do not be surprised at what they share.” Curufin held his eyes as he shook his head, wiping his face before the tears could make tracks on his already flushed cheeks.

“I understand now.”

“Good.” Curufin turned away and picked up his pen once more. “Perhaps now you can give thought to your unfortunate reaction to our brother’s ‘summer dalliance’.” Maglor blinked.

“How can you possibly know about that?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you have lost a piece of the trust he accorded you, and you should probably do something about that.”

Maglor felt anger curl through him and sat up a little straighter, willing Curvo to look at him, to confront him properly for once instead of just sitting there calm and detached as he always did; never matching anger with anger and yet somehow always winning his arguments.

“You do not think it wrong? That our brother should -”

“Of course it is wrong. It is sick, disgusting, against every one of Father’s standards – does that make you happy?” Coolly he set down his pen and looked up, neither flinching at the banked flames in Maglor’s eyes nor seeming even to care for the matter at hand at all. “But you cannot force or convince him to change, and attempting to do so will only make matters between the two of you worse.”

“But I can’t just -”

“You can, and you will, unless you wish to see our family torn apart by discord even as Father and Nolofinwë were.” Curufin’s eyes were hard and cold, and Maglor blanched as he saw in his mind what Maedhros had threatened and Curufin now clinically predicted. “Our feelings on this matter are of no consequence. Either we do not speak of it at all, or we speak,” his mouth twisted for a moment in something between bitterness and disgust, “we speak in support.”

Maglor stared at him, anger still burning through his mind, and yet the sense of what he was saying was clear to see. He loved Maitimo, had always looked up to him and cared for him – but did that now mean turning a blind eye to his debasement? _You have turned a blind eye to much worse_ , a voice inside him whispered, and his anger died as he swallowed and nodded grimly.

“Fine. You are right, as always, Curvo, and I hope you are happy about it.”

His brother’s voice was so quiet that almost he missed the next words.

“On the contrary, Káno, sometimes I wish I were never right at all.”


	11. Chapter 11

Wide lands lay quiet and still about the mountains that hemmed the Pass of Aglon. The Siege of Angband was by now well established, and for almost a decade the Fëanorians had encountered nothing but stony silence from the North. Now the only living forms that could be seen among the hills were two swift riders on horseback; one with loose blonde hair tangling behind him in the wind, swaying in an easy crouch bareback upon his mount, the other sitting straight in an ornate saddle, his black hair tightly braided and held in place with silver clasps.

As they approached the Pass trees began to press in on either side, gradually narrowing the path as it plunged between the high mountains. The brothers were soon hemmed on either side by deep forest, and though they had rode this way many times before (and through darker times than this) on this occasion they felt a sense of powerful and disturbing foreboding settle over them. Celegorm sensed the unease of the horses and bent low over his mount’s neck, murmuring soft reassurances in a tongue which Curufin did not know, while Curvo himself looked from side to side at the gloomy trees with narrowed eyes.

“Tyelko.” Celegorm continued his gentle speech to the horse, and Curufin frowned slightly in impatience. “Tyelko!”

“What is it?” Irritation showed plainly on Celegorm’s face as he looked up, and Curvo all but glared at him in response – why did his brother persist in talking to animals more readily than to his own kin?

“There is something else in these woods.” His tone was clipped as he continued to peer through the densely packed trees, and they slowed their horses almost to a walk. Celegorm stiffened as he heard a twig snap, and the brothers looked at each other with wide eyes. Curufin opened his mouth to say something - and that was when the ground fell in under the front legs of his horse and he pitched forward over its head to land hard on the ground. All the breath left his lungs, and behind him he heard Celegorm cry out and drop to the ground, running forward – but not to him, to the horse, for the pit had been filled with sharpened stakes and the animal was letting out shrieks of dying agony which even Curvo found hard to stomach.

A beat, a single second of breathless silence as he spun in the dirt and leapt to his feet, and then all hell broke loose.

From the trees a multitude of mud-smeared Orcs leapt forth, and in a movement quicker than sight Curufin drew his slender sword and hoped that behind him Celegorm still had the wits to defend himself despite the dying animal. As he parried the first strike he felt the familiar surge of battle-fire within him, and every sense sharpened to such intense clarity that the fight seemed for a single moment to have slowed around him and frozen. And then the rush began, and the Orcs were a red blur about him, and behind he heard Tyelko’s inarticulate cry of rage as he finally pulled himself together and joined the attack – and the Orcs continued to fall upon them, but Curvo was swifter than they in both body and mind and could not be overcome by strength alone. His blade flashed faster than any could follow, and he never stayed still for more than a moment – gradually moving forward along the path, as if still making for the end of the Pass despite their predicament. He did not see the heavy, coarse-woven net that closed about him as it fell from an overhanging branch, nor could he have hoped to.

Curufin’s scream of rage and shock pierced through the haze of Celegorm’s violence and he froze for the smallest of moments, eyes wide and flickering down the path in a frantic search for his brother. And then he heard the scream again, only this time it was a high shriek of pain, and he was fighting desperately now, flying down the path with destruction in his wake, an unstoppable force against which the Orcs could do nothing but _die_ , and the forest was tinged red in Celegorm’s eyes as he cut them down in a blur of black blood and yet _he was not fast enough, he could not get there,_ and a snarl tore from his throat as he heard Curvo cry out again, barely noticing as the press of Orcs thickened around him with arriving reinforcements – _they would not be enough to stop him, nothing would_ – but they slowed him down, and he could not endure it, he would not be kept back from his little brother –

A rich, throaty growl that had nothing whatsoever to do with the Enemy rippled through the air, and Celegorm felt suddenly light-headed with relief even as he continued to tear through the Orcs that blocked the path between him and Curvo. And then Huan dived into the fight, and Celegorm’s smile as he fought alongside his faithful beast (and in truth their technique was not so different) was terrible to behold. The last of the Orcs tried in vain to flee before them, but Huan dragged one back by the throat while Celegorm’s sword sliced the other almost clean in two – and then it was over, and a dreadful silence fell. Seconds passed, and Celegorm shook his head as if to clear the fight from it, his breathing heavy in the suddenly still air – and his eyes widened as he returned from the haze of battle and recalled the last sound he had heard from Curufin.

Quickly then he spun on his heel, looking about him wildly until his searching gaze landed on the great net and he ran to it, sword in hand and cutting it open even as he reached it. From within came a sound of pain, and his hands shook as he tore the remnants of the net away from where his brother lay.

Pain was written clearly on Curufin’s pale face, though his lips were pressed in a thin line and his eyes were clear and focused. One hand was pressed to his right side, and Celegorm saw with dismay that blood covered his hand and the lower part of his tunic. But what dismayed him more was the faintly unnatural position of his brother’s left leg; barely noticeable at first glance but all too clear to someone who knew injuries as well as Tyelko did. He sucked in a breath and knelt down at Curvo’s side, hardly noticing when Huan nosed in beside him to sniff at his injuries. Curvo made a face and tried to discourage him with his free hand, and at that Celegorm managed a slight smile. At least his brother was still...well, Curufin.

“Alright, it’s okay – Curvo, we need to get out of here.” Curufin nodded and winced a little at the movement; his voice was tight and strained when he spoke.

“Are they all dead?”

“Definitely.”

“Then you’d better carry me if we’re going somewhere; I do believe something is broken.” Celegorm swallowed and nodded, then as gently as he could he gathered Curvo into his arms and tried to ignore the blood that immediately stained his own clothes as he straightened up. A hiss of pain escaped Curvo’s lips and he flushed, two spots of colour appearing high on his cheeks in bright contrast to his pale face. Celegorm looked away towards the trees and whistled, following the sound with a soft call in the same tongue Curvo had heard him use earlier. Huan pricked up his ears, and after a long minute a slightly anxious-looking horse came trotting back out through the trees, complete with Celegorm’s pack and bow. He smiled and said something else, quiet and soothing, and the horse followed him as they set off down the path.

They did not go far; already Celegorm was concerned by the amount of blood Curufin was losing and he only walked far enough to find clean, unstained grass and a small clearing amidst the trees. A fresh spring bubbled through the edge of the space and gently he set Curvo down beside it with his back to a tree, hurrying over to the horse to retrieve his medical pack before trying to examine his brother’s injuries properly.

“Tyelko, don’t -”

“We can’t travel like this, Curvo, and we have to get out of here soon. So don’t make this difficult.” He nodded reluctantly, and Tyelko turned back to his pack for a moment.

“I can’t believe they used a net.” Curufin’s voice was weak, but the self-deprecating huff that passed his lips told Celegorm that his fëa was still as strong as ever. “And I can’t believe it _worked_.” Tyelko’s lips quirked in amusement as he slipped out a small knife and began to cut away the boot from Curvo’s left foot and ankle, but the smile quickly disappeared as his brother hissed in pain and closed his eyes.

“Curvo -”

“I’m _fine_.”

“You’re clearly not.”

“Would you just get on with it?”

There was silence for a few moments as Celegorm removed the boot and cut through Curufin’s trousers, carefully running his fingers over the site of the break with eyes half-closed and a look of worried concentration on his face. At length he blinked and looked up, meeting Curufin’s raised eyebrow with a nod.

“It’s only a fracture; all we need to do is splint it and make sure you don’t make it worse. Just – hold still a minute.” Curufin closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as Celegorm pressed his hands a little harder down his leg, setting the position it would have to stay in for the best chance of healing. When it was over he felt a rush of dizziness; the trees above them looked dim when he opened his eyes and Tyelko’s voice seemed to come from far away as he said something about herbs and found two lengths of wood that could serve to splint his leg. Then Huan whined in a somehow meaningful way, and he heard Celegorm exclaim in dismay and drop the wood as he knelt on the grass again and gently lifted Curvo’s bloodied hand from his side.

“Damn, Curvo, why didn’t you tell me to stop fussing with your leg and sort this out?”

“Like I said... ‘s fine.” Celegorm shook his head in exasperation and quickly groped through his bag until he found what he was looking for – a bundle of almost-fresh _athelas_ , which he laid on the grass beside Curufin as he fetched water from the clear stream. The scent of the plant helped Curufin to focus once more, and he frowned as he thought he heard quick hoofs on the path behind them.

“Tyelko -” But his brother was already on his feet, sword in hand and facing the path with eyes darting across the gaps between the trees – though he did not in truth look ready for a fight, only suspicious and more than a little confused. And then he half-smiled and sheathed his sword as Maglor broke through the trees and dismounted in haste, worry plain on his face as he looked between his brothers.

“Káno!” He frowned. “Has something happened?” Maglor shook his head in reassurance, but the worry did not leave his face as he glanced at Curufin once more.

“Maitimo’s scouts returned less than half a day after your departure. They brought news of Orcs in Aglon and Himlad, many more than two alone could hope to deal with – he is following now with a force to rout them out, but I hastened to find you -”

“And now you have found us. As you can see you are not the first – we happened to walk into an ambush, in fact, but -”

“Is Curvo hurt?”

“Yes,” said Celegorm, at the same time as Curufin protested weakly that he was actually fine, and Maglor made a face as he knelt beside him to examine the wound. Their voices faded as Curufin endured a fresh wave of dizzying pain, and all that he could make out as Celegorm bathed the wound with _athelas_ -infused water was that somehow a decision had been made to return to Himring until Maitimo’s force had cleared the pass. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision as Maglor’s careful fingers stitched up the wound, and he was fighting to stay conscious as Celegorm smeared one of his analgesic pastes over the stitches before finishing the splint for his leg. With a start he tried to focus himself as he realised the sharp moan of pain that had broken the silence was his own, and desperately he blinked up at the swaying leaves above the clearing in an attempt to regain control of his senses.

“Curvo.”

“...mm.”

“Curufinwë.”

“Káno...?” He heard a sigh of relief.

“We’re going to wait here now for Nelyo, and then we’re going back to Himring. You’re going to be fine, but you have to stay awake.” His voice was firm and edged with only a hint of worry, and Curufin was grateful that he seemed to be keeping it together better than Celegorm at least (who was now pacing the clearing like a caged animal, Huan padding silently at his side).

“Curvo?”

He realised he’d forgotten to answer and quickly nodded, silently cursing the way his head spun at even that slight movement.

Time passed slowly as Maglor and Celegorm waited anxiously for Maedhros to arrive, knowing they could not risk simply carrying Curufin with them on the horses. Celegorm felt again the uneasy foreboding which had troubled them as they entered the forest, but for now it was fainter and less heavy and he said nothing of it. Maglor sat by Curufin as the sun began to sink towards the West, singing softly or talking to try and keep him awake, and though he was unnaturally pale and did not speak his eyes stayed open and focused.

Stars opened like flowers in the sky, the dark smudges under Curvo’s eyes began to take on the appearance of bruises, and Celegorm could have sworn when he glanced over that his lips looked bluish against his too-pale skin. Maglor had fallen silent some time ago, and worry pricked ever harder at his mind as the hours wore on. And still Maedhros did not come.


	12. Chapter 12

Maedhros arrived by moonlight. Before he had even dismounted Maglor was hurrying to the edge of the clearing, speaking in hushed whispers which Curufin in his weakened state could not focus enough to eavesdrop on. Not far behind Celegorm could hear the near-silent rumour of the accompanying host, and further off yet still present in his mind was the threat of the Enemy’s Orcs. Hardly a minute was wasted in speech before Maedhros knelt beside Curufin to examine him, and barely-masked worry could be seen on his face as he looked back up at Maglor.

“We have to get him back to Himring.”

“He can’t go on a horse -”

“He’ll have to; we can’t waste time with the supply wagons. Delay will be more dangerous than a few hours on horseback -” he glanced at Curufin again, who still had barely even acknowledged him, “and we can’t afford that right now.”

“I’ll take him.” Celegorm looked tense as he walked over to his brothers, and Maglor looked him up and down with one eyebrow raised.

“No, you won’t.” Maglor looked to Maedhros for confirmation and he shook his head, sympathy in his eyes as he got to his feet.

“Tyelko, be realistic. You’re fresh from battle without a change of clothing, and besides you’re hardly the smoothest rider among us -”

“Fine.”

“Tyelko -”

“I shall ride ahead to ensure the healers are ready.” His glance lingered on his brother for a moment as without a word he turned away, but Curufin’s eyes were glassy and unfocused and Celegorm looked to be holding back both anger and guilt as he leapt up onto the horse and rode into the dark, swift and wild and not looking back.

Maglor bit his lip and looked at the ground. Maedhros sighed and unclasped his cloak, folding it into a tight pad of cloth which could be used to put pressure on Curvo’s wound and hopefully keep the stitches in place on the ride back to Himring. He handed it to Maglor, who blinked and looked up in surprise.

“I can’t exactly take him, can I, Káno?” Maglor flushed slightly and shook his head, then knelt beside Curufin and looked at him worriedly. His breathing was shallower now, and almost he seemed not to see what was in front of him, but when Maglor touched his hand he blinked and pain crossed his face as he focused once more on his brothers’ faces.

“Curvo?”

“Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper and a look of distaste crossed his face as he realised, disgusted by his own weakness.

“We’re going to lift you up and put you in the saddle now, and I’m going to ride behind you -”

“Don’t treat me like a child. Just get on with it.” Maglor swallowed nervously and looked up at Maedhros, who nodded reassuringly as he led the horse towards them.

In the end it took both of them to lift Curufin onto the horse, and though he endured as best he could he was barely conscious by the time Maglor climbed on behind him, one arm wrapped firmly about his waist and holding the folded cloak tight against his side.

“Curvo?” Maedhros looked suddenly quite worried as he looked up at the two of them, and Maglor felt like all the words he could have said were frozen in his throat. “Curufinwë -”

“I’m _alright_ , Nelyo, would you just...” Maglor’s eyes widened as Curufin’s weak sentence trailed into nothing, and panic began to grip him as he felt his brother slump against him in the saddle as he finally lost the battle to stay conscious.

“Curvo!” Maglor’s voice came out almost as a squeak, and Maedhros shook his head as he vaulted into his own saddle and urged the horse forward.

“Start riding, Káno.”

***

Maglor thought the night would never end. With each stride of the horse he felt Curufin slip and shift in the saddle, and he winced in sympathy as he tried to hold him closer. He could sense Maedhros at his side and hear the two sets of hoofs galloping through the leagues, but his eyes did not leave the path ahead save to glance down at his brother (and each time he did it brought nothing but worry - surely he should not be that pale; it must be the moonlight turning his lips that shade of purplish blue; why was his breathing so light and shallow?).

The worst moment was when he felt blood on his hand and realised it had soaked completely through the tightly folded cloth at Curufin’s side.

He almost sobbed when Himring came into view, high upon the hillside in the pale half-light of dawn. Maedhros urged his horse on ahead, riding hard up the hill to the gates, and he heard someone cry out from the fortress as he reached the main approach. And then dawn broke over the hill from the East, and he rode the final mile almost blinded by the Sun in his tears.

The healers met them in the main courtyard behind the gate, surrounding Maglor with a blur of movement and worried voices as they helped the brothers down from their horse, and then someone carried Curufin away on a stretcher and all Maglor could do was sit down on a low stone wall with his head in his hands and let the tears fall.

He did not look up at the sound of approaching footsteps, and his attempt to hold back his tears as someone placed a hand on his shoulder did not work at all. When the figure showed no signs of leaving he raised his head, pushing damp tangled curls away from his eyes, and Caranthir’s face blurred before him as he was pulled up and into a tight hug.

“Moryo...”

“I know.” Caranthir’s voice was rough with emotion. “They say -” he broke off and shook his head, holding Maglor a little tighter for a moment before stepping back and looking him up and down. “You look like you could use a drink.” Maglor nodded quickly and tried to wipe his face as Caranthir took hold of his arm and started off towards the wine cellar.

“What happened?”

“I – I wasn’t there; they were ambushed by Orcs in the Pass...” Maglor trailed off and wiped his eyes again, and Caranthir nodded as he opened the door and headed to a shelf in the corner with easy familiarity.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

“I never said -”

“Subtlety was never your strong suit, Káno.”

Maglor’s laugh turned into a sob halfway through and he grabbed the bottle from Caranthir as he opened it, closing his eyes to drink. Caranthir shrugged and reached for another bottle.

“I was going to get you a cup, but that works too.”

***

High in the main tower of Himring the only sound to be heard was the scratching of pen on paper. Maedhros knew his script was usually all but unreadable, spidery and wavering with smudges and blots of ink over the page, but if anyone could decipher it it would be Fingon. There was no need to write other letters; Celegorm had already set out to find Amras in person and Caranthir had postponed his departure when reports of the Orcs arrived.

_My dearest Findekáno,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

He sighed and frowned at the page, then crossed out the words and started over.

_Findekáno, Prince of Mithrim,_

_I trust you are well and continuing your valiant efforts against our Enemy._

The ink smudged as his hand touched the words, and he muttered a curse under his breath as he reached for a clean sheet of paper.

_Findekáno,_

A knock sounded at the door, and he stood up with no small amount of relief. It was always so much harder to communicate like this; so difficult to find the words for what needed to be said. Anxiety flickered through him as he opened the door and remembered all at once why he had been trying to write in the first place, but Caranthir’s wine-flushed face did not seem to hold any bad news and he relaxed even as he was pulled out into the hall.

“What is it?”

“Káno’s upset, and I’m out of ideas.” His voice was reasonably steady, and though Maedhros could tell he was more than a little drunk it did not show except in his colouring. “You’re good at that crap.” A smile tugged at Maedhros’ lips despite himself, and he suffered himself to be led away down the hall.

“Since when do you try to comfort Káno anyway?” A too-long pause stretched between them, and Maedhros remembered with some trepidation Caranthir’s blunt lack of tact when intoxicated.

“Since you weren’t there.”

The silence was cold as they walked down towards the cellars.


	13. Chapter 13

Maglor was sitting on the table in the wine cellar, swinging an almost-empty bottle in his long fingers and staring at the floor. Maedhros regarded his brother with resignation as behind him Caranthir picked out an old-looking wine and headed back up the steps; it was clear this was not just about Curufin any more, and he knew Maglor tended to fall harder than most in the times when their lives became too much to bear.

“Káno?” The dim light of the cellar illuminated Maglor’s face as he looked up, cheeks flushed with wine and stained by dried tears. Wild black curls framed overly bright eyes, and Maedhros sighed as he pulled up a chair and sat down.

“Moryo found you, huh?” Maglor’s voice was quiet and rougher than usual, and he wiped his face with his free hand before meeting his brother’s eyes. Maedhros nodded and held out his hand for the bottle, raising an eyebrow as Maglor drank again before passing it over.

“This isn’t just about Curvo.” It wasn’t a question, and Maglor sighed and shook his head as he watched Maedhros finish the bottle and set it back on the table. “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

“It’s everything, Nelyo, you know it is. Curvo not least, but...” He trailed off and shook his head, swallowing audibly as he looked up and blinked at the ceiling to keep back tears. “Our lives are a mess.”

“No they’re not. We have respect and alliances – the rift between our house and Nolofinwë’s has been healed, and for years now we have held these lands against the Enemy -” Maglor shook his head.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“ _We’re_ a mess, Maitimo.” He looked away, fingers tapping restlessly on the edge of the table. “Ever since – I mean, it just – things keep going wrong. We let...matters come between us which should not; we argue and fight about the stupidest of problems -”

“Are you trying to apologise for something which happened half a century ago?”

“Possibly.” Maedhros smiled then, and reached behind him for another bottle of wine.

“Better late than never, I suppose.”

Maglor did not smile as he watched his brother pour the wine into two cups.

“It’s not only that, Nelyo.”

“What else?” Maedhros looked up as he lifted the cup to his lips, leaning back in his chair in a deliberately relaxed movement.

“I – you -” Maglor shook his head and picked up his own cup, draining half of it in a single swallow before looking at Maedhros again. “I worry about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I am well enough to fight, to lead, to hold these lands secure – what more is there?”

“You still have nightmares.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Maedhros looked colder now as he set his cup down on the table and Maglor shivered at the memory of that night on the road back to Himring, the night when it really had mattered and he had (as always) been shut out.

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Káno...”

“You talk to Amras -”

“ _Kanafinwë._ ”

Maglor shifted awkwardly on the table, recalling Curufin’s words on the matter and feeling Maedhros’ cold stare even as he refused to meet it. The next words felt stuck behind the lump in his throat, but he blinked until his vision cleared and he could bear to meet his brother’s eyes again.

“I’m sorry.”

Maedhros only nodded, and Maglor felt hot tears slip down his cheeks again quicker than he could wipe them away. So he ignored them, and finished his wine instead.

“I understand that you are frustrated with me.” Maedhros seemed almost to be speaking to himself; he was not looking at Maglor at all now. “You grew up walking in my footprints, we shared everything – and it is for precisely that reason that I cannot burden you with this.”

“But -”

“I have to remain your older brother, Káno.”

“Maitimo... You can’t - nothing could ever change that.”

Maedhros smiled, but even in that dim light Maglor could see it did not reach his eyes (and these were full of a sadness so intense he had to look away).

“Nothing, you say?”

The silence stretched painfully as Maglor could not find an answer.

***

Celegorm had tracked Amras through the night and most of that day. He knew it would not be easy; his brother was almost a match for him when it came to disappearing into the pathless forests - but the key word there was _almost_ , and at last he was certain that he would be found within the hour. Then would come the true challenge, of course – only once before had he sought out his youngest brother in the wilderness, and it had not been a pleasant task.

He went on foot now, deliberately loud among the twigs and leaves of the undergrowth. Huan padded at his side, silent as always and seeming more than a little confused by Celegorm’s strange behaviour. But it surely would be better to be found first than to surprise Amras unawares – he knew that contained within the uninhabited wilds and forests were his brother’s few places of peace, and except in times of dire need he respected that and did not try to find him. But this was one of those rare times; Curufin was hurt, perhaps even –

A flash of auburn showed through the leaves ahead, and Celegorm began to sing a soft song of leaves and birds.

“Tyelkormo.” The voice was quiet but clear, and Amras’ face was pale as he stepped out onto the path. “What has happened?”

“Curufinwë has been hurt.” A flicker of something unreadable crossed Amras’ expression and he nodded, eyes flickering away to look at something in the trees. Celegorm felt vaguely uneasy. “I came to find you and bring you back to Himring.”

“Is it serious?” Celegorm hesitated, trying to meet Amras’ eyes (and failing; his brother seemed preoccupied and distant and would not even look at him).

“Yes.”

The strange emotion crossed Amras’ face once more, and Celegorm thought he grew paler as his features returned to smooth unconcern.

“I do not have a horse.”

“We can share mine; he is strong enough to bear us both.” Amras nodded silently and watched as Celegorm called for his horse; he did not speak as they set off out of the forest and began to ride across the plains, and Celegorm’s sense of unease did not fade. He tried to break the silence – perhaps an explanation would help; he thought he should at least try to prepare Amras for what they might find.

“Káno took him back to Himring two days ago. I - we were ambushed by Orcs in the Pass of Aglon -”

“Please stop talking.”

***

In the healing rooms at Himring, the sheets were stained with blood.


	14. Chapter 14

Celegorm and Amras arrived at Himring as the Sun was sinking down into the sharp teeth of the western mountains. Maedhros saw them dismount from his window as he finished the letter; Celegorm leaped from the horse and set off at a run straightaway while Amras climbed down more slowly and stood still in the open yard, seeming almost at a loss and hardly reacting when the horse nudged gently at his side. With a vague sense of disquiet Maedhros frowned and set off down the stairs, far too preoccupied to notice the light sound of footsteps walking up to meet him.

“Nelyo.”

“Hmm?” He blinked and looked up, and everything snapped back into focus as he saw the look in Amras’ eyes. “What... What did Tyelko say?”

“That Curvo was hurt.” Maedhros nodded.

“He’s going to be okay -”

“Don’t lie to me; I can tell you don’t know that.” Amras’ look was cold on the surface (though he could see the burning emotion behind it), and Maedhros sighed and looked away.

“If you really want to know, they won’t even let us see him.”

Silence followed this, and Maedhros froze as he looked back to Amras – it was as if a mask had fallen at last from his brother’s face, and raw panic was written on his features as he stared at Maitimo without seeming to see him at all, fists clenched at his sides.

“Amras -”

“Nelyo, please -!”

The eldest of the brothers only nodded as he gently guided the youngest down a quiet corridor towards the less-used parts of the fortress.

***

They tried to stop Celegorm at the door, but one look at his expression put paid to that idea. The healers fell silent as he entered and stepped away from the bed where Curufin lay, and none dared approach or venture words of comfort as Celegorm felt all his breath escape in a rush and every bit of colour drain from his face.

His brother’s sickroom smelled faintly of death, and Curvo was paler than the sheets he lay on.

***

Maglor blinked up at the ceiling through long lashes crusted with sleep, and made a face as he recognised the sour taste of last night’s wine in the back of his throat. As he sat up he remembered the conversation with Maitimo – and then he noticed the figure standing at the end of the bed, and rubbed his eyes as he sat up straighter.

“Moryo?”

“That’s usually what you call me, yes.” Caranthir’s tone was dry, but his eyes betrayed his worry as he looked at Maglor. “You’ve been asleep most of the day.”

“And?”

“And Tyelko arrived less than an hour ago. With Amras, I’ve been told – though no-one seems to know where he is.”

“Oh.” Maglor stretched as he pushed back the covers and swung his long legs down to the floor, not entirely sure what else to say. Caranthir let out an impatient huff and sat down on the edge of the bed, holding out the cup of water he’d been carrying to Maglor (who took it gratefully and closed his eyes as he washed away the traces of the night before).

“Tyelko went into Curvo’s room.” Maglor’s eyes snapped open again and he looked closely at Caranthir, trying to read in his face what had actually happened. Caranthir shook his head. “I don’t know. He hasn’t come out yet.”

“Damn it.” Maglor put down the cup and ran his hands through his hair, making a face as his fingers caught in the tangled curls.

“It’s too quiet, Káno.”

“I know.”

***

Celegorm had not moved since someone had thought to bring him a chair some time ago. His eyes were fixed on his brother, and each time someone stepped between them he felt little tendrils of panic curl in his stomach – as if Curvo were safe only while he could see him. The room was quiet; the healers spoke in hushed voices and Celegorm paid little attention to what they were saying, being preoccupied with pointless mental attempts to will his brother’s recovery.

At length the room grew still and Celegorm realised that only one of the healers remained, sitting at Curvo’s side with a clean white cloth pressed to his wound. She looked up with anxiety in her eyes as he noticed her, and the question he desperately wanted to ask stuck in his throat as he looked at his brother again.

“We have done all that we can for him now, my lord.” Her voice was quiet and a little nervous, as if she feared the reaction her words could bring. “We – we believe the blade was coated with a substance which prevents the blood from clotting, however we have dealt with this as our knowledge allows and all that remains is to wait for your brother to wake.”

“And will he?” Celegorm swallowed and cleared his throat as he noticed the roughness of his voice, almost not wanting to hear the answer. The healer looked back to Curufin then, and her response was very quiet.

“We do not know, my lord.”

***

“Finno, just because you’ve got some weird ‘bad feeling’ doesn’t mean anything is actually wrong.” Aredhel was a picture of exasperated indifference, lounging in her seat at the table with a plate of food and a cup of wine and trying her best to be patient with her brother’s worrying.

“But I was right last time -” She narrowed her eyes at him and sat up straighter.

“This isn’t just about our cousins in general, is it?”

“...not exactly.”

“Look, whatever you’ve done with Maitimo is none of my business, but if I have to put up with this whining when you could just ignore the distance and _ask_ him -”

“Fin, there’s a letter for you.” Turgon had opened the door without knocking, and Fingon almost tripped on his chair as he got up and hurried over to his brother. “It’s from -”

“I know who it’s from.” He almost snatched the letter from Turgon, opening it quickly and scanning the page with a frown as he struggled to decipher his cousin’s handwriting. Turgon raised an eyebrow at Aredhel and she shrugged, indicating the seat opposite her as he took Fingon’s arm and walked them both back to the table.

“Anything exciting?” Aredhel sipped her wine as she watched Fingon’s expression.

“It’s Curufinwë -”

“That sly little bastard, what’s he done now?”

“No – Írissë, he’s been injured.”

“Oh.”

“I have to talk to Father.”

“Finno, wait -”

But he was already gone, and Aredhel sighed in resignation as Turgon pointed out that this was unlikely to end well for any of them.


	15. Chapter 15

The Moon was riding high above Himring, yet no-one slept. Maglor and Caranthir waited now with Curufin; Celegorm had left the room when they came to find him and had not been seen since. The room was silent save for three sets of breath (one so soft and shallow it was hardly to be heard); no-one had spoken since the healer had taken her leave and left them with the instruction to call her at the slightest sign of change.

Both brothers jumped when a knock sounded at the door. Maglor was the one to answer; Caranthir did not even look up.

“Come in, Nelyo.” Maedhros opened the door and stepped halfway in, looking slightly pale as he glanced between the faces of his brothers.

“Would you two mind going to look for Tyelko? I can’t seem to find him.” Maglor nodded as he recognised Maedhros’ deliberately calm tone, the one which said ‘there is a problem, and I need you out of the way so I can deal with it’ – he had always hated that message, but in recent years he had come to understand it clearer than ever.

“Of course.” He stood, pulling a slightly confused Moryo up with him, and turned to leave. Maedhros did not move from the doorway.

“The other door, Káno.”

Maglor’s eyes widened slightly as he pulled Caranthir out of the second door and closed it quickly behind them.

Maedhros breathed a short sigh of relief as the door closed with a soft click, letting his eyes settle on Curufin in concerned appraisal. After a few long moments he opened the main door a little wider, quietly standing to the side as his youngest brother stepped hesitantly into the privacy of the small room.

Amras looked pale and shaken, wrapped in something between a cloak and a blanket with watery, red-rimmed eyes and trembling lips. As he saw Curufin his breath rushed out in a quiet half-sob, and before he could take another step Maitimo was at his side, supporting him as his strength gave out and he sank to the floor by the bed, on his knees and reaching up to take one of Curvo’s cold hands in his own. His shoulders shook as he hid his face in the sheets, and Maedhros said nothing as he held him through it, eyes downcast and left hand gently smoothing down his brother’s hair and back, knowing no words of comfort could possibly help. Silently he willed Curvo to recover, to awaken – if not for himself or for the rest of them then for Amras, for broken Ambarussa who he knew could never cope with another loss of this kind.

But Curufinwë’s eyes remained closed, and Maitimo felt tears prick the corners of his own.

***

Fingon’s hands shook slightly as he spread the letter on the table before his father, so he put them behind his back and laced his fingers tightly together.

“What is this, Findekáno?”

“It is a letter from our cousins. Curufinwë is injured, and I intend to ride to Himring and see what help can be given, or what counsels may be taken for our defences.”

“Why?” Nolofinwë’s stare was piercing, and Findekáno felt his carefully prepared half-truths begin to wither beneath it.

“For – for the purpose of discerning more clearly this situation; the letter tells of an Orc-pack of which I would know more.”

“You have no need of such a journey. If further information must be gathered, send a messenger – one of our household, perhaps, or -”

“Father, I -”

“Do not interrupt me, Findekáno.” His tone was calm, and Fingon nodded as he tried to keep his expression smooth and focused - though he could feel the familiar coil of his anxieties winding tighter somewhere deep in his stomach. “If you must go, you will go as a diplomatic envoy, with others of our household and perhaps one of your brothers to assist with the technicalities - though if this letter speaks true, I do not believe it would be entirely wise to do so.”

Silence filled the room, and Fingolfin narrowed his eyes somewhat as he took in his son’s expression.

“Unless, of course, you have another reason to wish for this journey?”

The shake of his head and the denial that spilled over his lips were too quick, and they both knew it.

“Findekáno -”

“It’s nothing, Father, it – I – it doesn’t matter, I shall -”

“You shall go. Take with you whom you will, and send them back to me once you arrive.”

“I don’t understand -”

“This is as close to a time of peace as we are likely to get. If my eldest son requires some time away, perhaps to...examine his loyalties, and take time to think on where his priorities and feelings might truly lie, then who am I to grudge him that?” The lightness of Fingolfin’s tone was betrayed by the hard overlay of his eyes, and Fingon felt anger mix with his worry as he saw this deepest matter of his heart trivialised to a mere confusion of the mind.

“Father, this is not -”

“I care not what this is; only what you discover it to be.” And unspoken was the knowledge that passed between them – that there could be only one right answer in the end, and that the patience of Nolofinwë would last but while the watchful peace still held.

***

The Pass of Aglon was littered with the detritus of a day-old battle when the horse and rider came upon it at last. The young Elf did not hesitate, pressing on between the trees and refusing to think of what could have befallen there. He did not see the bloodstained clearing or the remains of the tattered net - and he did not attempt to look for such signs. He knew, of course, that something had gone wrong, but he would hear it rather from the Lord of Himring than from the trees and grasses.

Dark, cropped hair tangled in the wind as he came out onto the plains of the March. His father had not wanted him to cut it, but he found it less bothersome at his shoulders than down by the small of his back – and it would now cause less discomfort to rectify the tangles and snarls caused by this gale. He rode hard across the lands then, letting the horse run as swift as it wished, and as night fell and the Moon rose he did not halt or slow. The stones of Himring shone faintly on the horizon, and he resolved to arrive before daybreak – or with the dawn, if possible (his family was good at being dramatic, if nothing else, and he supposed he should follow in that tradition at least). Resolutely he pushed down the anxiety that loomed about him each time he considered the possibilities the past days could have brought, and he looked up to the stars as he rode, attempting to recall another light he saw sometimes in his dreams. A light he was told he had seen as a child – though in truth his first memories seemed always to be flames.


	16. Chapter 16

Amras had cried himself almost to the point of exhaustion by the time dawn broke over the fortress. Maedhros had said nothing to try and stop him; if this was a new form of reacting and coping then it was by far the most healthy he had yet seen from his youngest brother. Neither had moved from the floor by Curufin’s bed, and Amras still held one of his brother’s pale hands in his own as he turned away from the bed to curl against Maitimo’s chest and into his arms. And then Maedhros did speak; soft, soothing words of old Quenya lullabies, things which he knew had worked before, and as the new sunlight began to filter into the room Amras regained the little control he could still hold over his emotions.

Maedhros looked up at the sound of shouting and running feet in the courtyard outside, and fell silent as a knock came at the door.

“Maitimo? Slight problem out here.”

“What is it, Moryo?”

“Telperinquar.”

“ _What?_ ” At this, Amras looked up quickly at the closed door before turning to Maitimo, eyes red but dry.

“I’ll be fine. You should go; find out what is happening.” His voice was hoarse and unsteady, but his eyes brooked no argument as he slipped out of Maedhros’ arms to sit on the floor alone. Maedhros sighed and rearranged the blanket over Amras’ shoulders as he stood and walked to the door.

“I’ll send Káno to keep you company.”

“Fine.”

Outside, there was temporary chaos. Caranthir looked worried and more than a little angry as he pulled Maedhros across the courtyard towards a sunny spot where two dark-haired figures stood by a tired-looking horse, arguing fiercely. Several concerned Elves stood nearby; more than a few of which seemed more concerned with the horse than with the family dramatics.

“You didn’t even send a letter -”

“We didn’t have time, Tyelpë -”

“It’s _Celebrimbor_ , Uncle.”

“I really don’t understand why you -”

“It’s beside the point – _where is my father?_ ”

“He’s – ah, Maitimo, there you are!” Maglor looked more than a little desperate as Maedhros raised an eyebrow at the incident before him.

“Káno, please return to last night’s rooms where you will find our youngest brother in need of some company.” Maglor nodded quickly and departed even quicker, glancing gratefully back at Maedhros as he hastened across the yard to the healing rooms. Caranthir folded his arms and watched, careful to stay a little way back from the impending argument.

“Where is my father, Maedhros?” Maitimo sighed as he looked down at Telperinquar, all bitter anger and fire behind those silver eyes (and his father placed not least in the reasons for these), and resolved to handle this with as much tact as possible.

“Your father was injured in an ambush two days ago. We did not send word because -”

“ _Where is he?_ ”

“He is in the healing rooms, being cared for by -” Telperinquar turned quickly to go, and Maedhros stepped in front of him with a sigh. “He is being cared for by the best of our healers, and to have his son rush in fresh from a long ride and full of angry words would do him no good at all.” He could see the flare of simmering rage behind his nephew’s silver eyes at this, and held back the next phrase on his lips (which could easily have been construed as even more patronising), deciding instead to cut the conversation short.

“Come; let me show you to the guest chambers.” He did not wait for a response before turning to go, confident that his relative lack of patience would persuade Telperinquar to follow. And he did not let relief show on his face as he heard footsteps behind him after a few moments – he could really do without the added stress of Curufinwë’s adolescent son having a temper tantrum.

***

_He recognised nothing save his son’s silver eyes. He was a spectator only, on the outside of the scene, and something was very, very wrong. Telperinquar looked older, confident and strong, yet anxiety was in his eyes as he stood as if waiting for someone in the darkened forge. And there was the ‘someone’ he had been waiting for; beautiful and ethereal with bright eyes and flowing blonde hair, a creature which Curufinwë knew could not possibly be of the Eldar._

_“Celebrimbor...”_

_“Annatar.”_

_The creature cocked his head to one side, smooth beautiful skin creasing in a frown as he studied Telperinquar with the kind of gaze that made Curufin want to tear his eyes out._

_“What’s wrong, Tyelpë?”_

_“Don’t call me that.” Telperinquar’s eyes flashed dangerously as he took a step closer. “I know what you have done.”_

_“You wound me, sweetling. Please, tell me, what have I done to provoke such anger in you?”_

_“You – you – the Rings, Annatar!” His son’s voice was almost desperate, as if searching for a reason to disregard his fears – almost as though he wanted to be wrong, Curufin thought. But Annatar smiled, and it was cold and deadly as the light in his golden eyes._

_“I always wondered how long it would take you. To see the truth of our lives, to finally listen to those lingering doubts of yours – you forced yourself to trust, Tyelpë, and you have realised too late your mistake.”_

_“No...”_

_Annatar lifted his hands, and rings glittered on his fingers as shadows swirled from the walls to trap Telperinquar in their midst._

_“But yes, Celebrimbor, and you will tell me everything else I could ever need to know.”_

_Curufin tried to look away. He tried to break free of the dream – he had done it before, as he watched their cousin die amidst flames, and many times apart from that – but this time it was different, something was wrong, and he realised too late that he was trapped inside the scene and unable to wake._

_Reluctantly, inevitably, he looked back to his son, and found the scene changed about them. Flames licked at one wall; Annatar’s hair seemed to be made of fire itself with the light of their reflections, and the opposite wall held delicately crafted chains. And within those chains –_

_“Tyelpë, you will tell me.”_

_“I will not.”_

_And Curufin could only watch, horrified, as the inhuman creature tore into his son’s flesh._

***

“What’s wrong with him?” Amras’ voice was a hiss, and Maglor only shook his head and tightened his grip on his younger brother’s arm as they stood back against the wall of the small room to give the healers space. “Káno -”

“If I knew, I would tell you – believe me.” He kept his voice low, and glanced often at Curufin where he lay on the sheets. “It looks like a fever, but he’s not even hot, I – I don’t think anyone knows -”

“Where is Nelyo?”

“Dealing with Tyelpë, I think -”

“He should be here.”

“Amras -” But he was already gone, twisting sharply out of Maglor’s grip and slipping out of the door before anyone could stop him. Maglor sighed and tugged his fingers through his curls, trying to ignore the gnawing anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He could hear Curufin’s breathing more clearly now, but his short, pained gasps were hardly better than the shallow half-breaths of the night before, and still he did not move though the muscles of his pale face twitched with each second that passed in microexpressions of pain and anger. He felt worse than useless standing there; nothing more than an obstruction to the healers who had refused to give him any task that might assist their work. Tears prickled behind his eyes as he pressed his lips together in a thin line, but he swallowed them back and continued to watch – and to hope, as much as he feared.

And then Curufin trembled; the first movement to reach through all his body as he lay there, and his eyes fluttered and opened at last with blank shock written in them.

“Curvo -!” One of the healers shushed him quickly, pulling him to one side of the room, and he jerked away from her and hurried to his brother’s bedside. But where he had expected some weak yet sarcastic remark or cool, composed glance, there was only shallow breathing and glazed, almost frightened grey eyes.

A long moment of utter stillness passed, and no-one spoke.


	17. Chapter 17

Telperinquar slipped out of his room, freshly dressed in clean silks which he suspected belonged to one of his uncles, and set off in the direction memory told him would lead to the healing rooms. It had been five years since his last visit, yet precious little had changed within the cold fortress atop the colder hill. Ahead he heard voices, and ducked quickly out of sight as he recognised Maedhros’ low tone in conversation with the seldom-heard voice of his youngest uncle (which now held an unmistakeable note of panic).

“Nelyo, something’s wrong -”

“Breathe, Amras.” A pause, then more collected:

“It’s like some kind of fever, only he’s not even hot. He still won’t wake, and the healers – if they know what’s wrong, they’re not telling us.” Another pause, and then the sound of receding footsteps and further words too faint to make out. Telperinquar breathed a sigh of relief and stepped back into the passageway, quickly and silently following his uncles through the halls towards the healing rooms. He did not particularly want to think about the fact that they had most likely been discussing his father.

***

Complete silence filled the air as awareness returned to Curufin’s eyes. He glanced quickly around the room, taking in the expressions on the faces of the healers (and all but ignoring his brother), then closed his eyes for a brief moment as if banishing some unwanted dream or memory. When he opened them again and saw that no-one had moved he sighed and made a face.

“Am I really so astonishing, that all of you have nothing better to do than watch me breathe and blink?”

Maglor’s hastily suppressed snort broke the silence, and Curufin smirked tiredly at him as the healers departed. And then the door opened again, and the identical looks of relief on the faces of Maedhros and Amras elicited a raised eyebrow as Curufin looked between them.

“You didn’t actually think I was going to die, right?”

“Curvo!”

“What? I -” But he never finished the sentence, for at that moment Telperinquar slipped in through the door and pushed past his uncles to stand at the foot of the bed. Several long, awkward seconds passed in silence, and everyone felt slightly uncomfortable.

“Tyelpë.” Curufin’s tone was cold, completely at odds with the inexplicable relief in his eyes.

“Father.”

***

The smell of the fens drifted faintly up to meet Fingon as he picked his way across the western slopes of the Ered Wethrin, sitting loose and relaxed in the saddle of the surefooted horse. To the south mists wrapped the Fen of Serech and the pass into Dorthonion, and Fingon frowned as he saw a figure on horseback riding slowly up from the direction of the new fortress along the path as it followed the line of the river. He rode on some way further until he recognised the Elf, and smiled as he called out across the mist-wreathed grass.

“Findaráto!” The figure looked up, and urged the horse on and up the first slope towards Fingon.

“Cousin Finno! I did not think to see you in these parts – what brings you hence?”

“I could say the same of you; I was told your intention was to remain at Tol Sirion?” Finrod shrugged and smiled, blue eyes sparkling.

“You know me too well to believe that, surely? Not while there are other places yet unseen in these lands – and besides, Orodreth seemed in need of a place to call his own. He cannot learn to rule in our shadow.” Fingon nodded as he joined his cousin on the path towards Dorthonion. “But you have not explained yourself, Findekáno – what calls you away from the halls of your father?”

“I purpose to visit Himring and take counsel with the Sons of Fëanor. We have had word of an Orc-raid in the Pass of Aglon...” He trailed off as he glanced at Finrod, internally cursing the too-perceptive nature of the Arafinwëans. His cousin was studying him with one eyebrow raised and a smile half on his lips, and he seemed annoyingly sure of himself as he spoke.

“You are going alone for this piece of diplomacy?”

“Yes.”

“Then you will not mind if I accompany you?”

“Why would you wish to accompany me?” Finrod shrugged.

“These lands are not wholly peaceful, and one alone may come to harm. Also,” and here a sparkle came into his eyes as of laughter in rain or sunlight upon water, “I too should like to see our cousins once again, if only to speak of these new defences and plans against the Enemy.”

Fingon eyed him suspiciously, but nodded. He knew well the drama that could erupt between Finrod and their high-tempered cousins, especially at times of stress as this was apt to be, but he conceded that travelling alone was perhaps under the circumstances not altogether wise.

“Good! Then shall we go with haste across Ard-Galen? My brothers’ halls are home to the most wonderful hospitality, but I fear we could be delayed for some time should you discover the new wines of Dorthonion.” Again he smiled, and Fingon became certain that he somehow knew more than he was letting on – but he nodded once more, and they turned their horses northward from the pass and looked instead to the green grasses of the East.

***

The sun was sinking red into the mountains beyond Himring as the Fëanorians took their evening meal. Celegorm had returned from wherever he had disappeared to (no-one asked, and he did not tell) and gone straightaway to Curufin; the others had left the two of them alone without needing to be asked, and now sat around the long table of the main hall in a slightly awkward silence.

“Is anyone going to tell me what actually happened?” Telperinquar’s tone was bitter, and everyone felt slightly guilty over the fact that no-one had actually contacted Curufin’s son after the ambush.

“Your father was riding through the Pass of Aglon with your uncle Tyelkormo when they were ambushed by Orcs. Curufinwë was injured in the attack, and Makalaurë brought him back in time to be healed.” Maedhros sounded tired, and took a long drink of wine once the explanation was done.

“Fine. Now is anyone going to tell me what actually happened – before that?”

Silence spread across the room as four sets of eyes looked into sharp silver accusation. Maglor was the first to speak.

“What are you talking about, Tyelpë?”

“It’s _Celebrimbor_. And I’m talking about what Father refuses to explain, every time I ask – something happened, before we came here, and somehow I’m the only one who doesn’t know.”

“You were only a child -”

“I’m not a child now!”

Maglor shot Maedhros a half-pleading look, and Maedhros sighed and cleared his throat.

“Telperinquar, what do you remember?”

His answer was immediate, as if it had long been held back in the dark.

“Flames upon the Sea, and somebody screaming.”

The silence that followed was so absolute that the sound of spilling wine and a chair pushed back so hard it fell ripped through it like a blade. Telperinquar went white with shock as Amras all but ran from the room, and he jumped as the door slammed behind him and served only to deepen the silence. He looked around the table at the faces of his uncles – Maedhros worried and guilty, Maglor deeply sad, Caranthir angry yet still concerned – and realised that this was almost certainly a matter far worse than he had dared to imagine.

The eldest two arose, and Maglor walked to the fireside as Maedhros left the room to follow Amras. Caranthir refused to meet Celebrimbor’s eyes as Maglor returned with a small harp, and as the first notes echoed through the hall Tyelpë knew he would find all the answers he had looked for in the song – whether he wanted them now or not.

***

“I’ve told you a thousand times, Tyelko, I’m absolutely fine.” Celegorm huffed disbelievingly and shook his head.

“Why is your son here, if you’re so clearly ‘fine’?” Curufin’s lips pressed to a thin line.

“I have no idea. And I don’t believe the others sent for him; else he would still be a day’s ride away.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Where did you go to, anyway?”

“Hunting.” Celegorm’s answer was more of a noncommittal grunt, and Curufin sighed.

“Not true.”

“Partially true.”

“The rest?”

“Give me a break, Curvo, I needed to kill something.”

“You went after the Orcs.” It wasn’t a question.

“They were all dead already.”

“You went after _more_ Orcs.”

“There was another pack! Towards the Gap -”

“You could have been killed!” Celegorm snorted.

“I wouldn’t have -”

“Wouldn’t have what? Been caught in a net? Because you’re better than me, is that it?”

“Curvo, for the love of -”

“ _Did you or did you not put your life at risk in an idiotic manner?_ ”

“I never -”

“ _Turcafinwë._ ” Celegorm bristled.

“Don’t you dare try to be him, don’t you dare -”

“ _Did you or did you not -_ ”

“Fine! Fine, alright, I ran, I did something stupid because I couldn’t stand being stuck in this place with you – when you -” He broke off, pacing the length of the small room with his hands clenched at his sides.

“When you thought I was going to die? You know me better than that, Tyelkormo.” Celegorm’s head snapped up to stare at his brother, and as he saw the smirk on Curufin’s face the tension between them slowly cracked and broke at last. And then he began to laugh, because the only alternative was to cry.


	18. Chapter 18

_The golden light of Laurelin filled the forest as the twins flicked water at each other across the lazy expanse of the river. Below, small iridescent fish flickered in the languid current; above, Aredhel lay on her back along a wide branch of an overhanging tree, dropping thin shavings of wood into the rippling water as she trimmed down a new set of arrows. A sense of peaceful stillness lay upon the scene, and the air was heavy with summer._

Amras stirred, clinging to the dream even as the morning sunlight pulled him from sleep.

_Ambarussa laughed as the sparkling droplets flew through the air, and one dived open-eyed beneath the surface to see the fish more clearly. The other followed, and identical eyes met through the shifting clear waters._

A chill breeze whispered from the open window, dragging him further into reality.

_The river was a mirror between them, and they were the same._

He blinked, then closed his eyes again and willed himself back into the scene.

_The current rippled, blurring and distorting, and the scene began to change and shatter._

He kept his eyes shut; one last try.

_Always, behind everything, there were flames._

Amras stared at the ceiling, the emptiness within his soul aching as if freshly torn.

***

Telperinquar watched the sunrise from the eastern balcony of his uncle’s tower. Sleep had proved elusive, and images of Maglor’s song still danced hauntingly through his mind. What the Enemy had done – what _his family_ had done – and what they must yet do without hope of return...

He wondered if he should be angry at his mother for letting him go so easily.

He wondered if she had had any say in the matter at all.

***

Celegorm put his head in his hands and groaned, slumping forward dramatically onto the end of Curufin’s bed from his position in the chair. He had forgotten how utterly insufferable his already irritable younger brother tended to become when confined to bed against his will.

“I’m just _saying_ -”

“Well, how about you don’t?”

“Tyelko -”

“Give it a rest, will you? They’re not going to put you back in your own room yet, not at the top of that ridiculous tower – and they’re certainly not going to let you get up!”

“But I’m -” Celegorm practically growled.

“I swear, if you say _fine_ I am going to set Huan on you.”

“You will not; you are obviously still far too concerned over my delicate health.”

“Oh, would you please just stop talking?”

“Since when has politely asking me to stop talking ever worked – and since when do you say please?”

“Curufinwë, shut up!”

Maedhros chose that moment to open the door and step inside, one eyebrow raised in mild disapproval.

“Everything alright in here?” Celegorm groaned loudly, and Curufin folded his arms and glared at both of them. “You look exactly like Tyelpë when you do that, you know.” Maedhros hesitated a moment before continuing. “And speaking of your son – I should warn you that he may have some questions when you next see him.”

“What did you tell him?” Curufin sounded dangerously irritated now, and Maedhros looked slightly uncomfortable. “Nelyo, _what did you tell him?”_ Maedhros opened his mouth to stall the conversation, but Curufin’s glare was piercing and would suffer no prevarication.

“...Alqualondë.” Curufin swore and looked away. Celegorm shifted uncomfortably on his chair.

“Anything _else?”_

“Losgar.”

“Maitimo, _why?!”_ Shock and anger flashed through the room, and Maedhros took a step back.

“He had to find out eventually -”

“Not like this!”

“Curvo -” It was as if a switch had been flipped; the anger blazing in Curufin’s expression turned suddenly icy cold.

“Get _out_ , Nelyafinwë.” The flash in Curufin’s dark eyes and the eerily familiar expression on his still-pale face was more than enough for Maedhros to determine that this was a bad idea, and silence fell heavily on the room as the door closed behind him.

“Curvo...”

“You too, unless you have something useful to say.”

Celegorm closed the door with a little more force than Maedhros had.

***

“How is it that I have never tasted your cooking until now?”

“Perhaps it is because you have not the wandering spirit of your brother?” Finrod smiled as he added a few herbs to the steaming stew before them. “If you wish to sample my dishes of the wild, you must first sample the wild itself, Findekáno.”

Fingon leaned back against the grassy hillside and looked up to the stars, seeming lost in thought for several minutes as the pot bubbled quietly over the small campfire.

“I admit; I can see why you enjoy it.”

“The wild? Why, I should dearly hope that you see it, cousin – else why did you come to these lands?” Fingon fixed his cousin with a sharp look at that, half-rising from his relaxed position – but Finrod’s face was a picture of innocent curiosity, and he only smiled at Fingon’s frown.

“Findaráto...”

“Your dinner is ready, Findekáno.” Fingon sat up properly then, and ignored the teasing sparkle in Finrod’s eyes as he sampled the stew.

“Most excellent, for wilderness fare.” Fingon smiled, but Finrod affected a rather affronted air and set down his spoon in the grass as he replied.

“ _For wilderness fare?_ I should hope for higher praise than this, cousin – surely you would now be munching on waybread and dried meats if not for my charity?”

“Charity, Findo? Is that what you call it when you give in to your own desire for the wide open spaces of these lands, and take a companion on your road to play at needling our cousins?”

“As I recall, the cousin-needling was your proposal.”

“My only proposal was a journey of diplomacy.” Finrod laughed then, and set about his own dinner with a shake of his head. Fingon felt faintly as if he had been played for a fool, though he recalled that this was a common response to conversation with most of the Arafinwëan line.

The stars shone brighter overhead as the night wore on, and the Moon rose late. Finrod lay stretched out on the grass of the hillside, relaxed and utterly still as he watched the passage of the night. Beside him Fingon was less calm, almost envying his cousin’s golden serenity as he brooded upon the welcome – or lack thereof – which he might expect to receive at Himring. The letter had not asked him to come, yet within the words he had felt the request he knew Maitimo could never bring himself to make.

His brothers, on the other hand... If they were gathered there also, which was more than likely given the contents of the letter, surely this could only be a bad idea?

For the first time since taking leave of his father, Fingon began to doubt himself.

***

As the day wore on towards evening and the first stars shone out in the sky, Maedhros locked himself inside his rooms under the pretence of writing another letter and looked out from the western window across the hills and plains. He would not stay away long; already guilt was settling over him at the thought of leaving his brothers to mediate their own dramatics for an evening, but he had taken this chance for a brief respite.

He wondered if the letter would be enough, and if the intervening years had changed what they had parted with.

He looked into the setting sun, and all it sent back to him was the wind.


	19. Chapter 19

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Finrod only smiled, folding his arms and leaning against the doorway of Curufin’s room with an insufferable air of satisfaction about him. Beside him, Fingon had the decency to look slightly embarrassed.

“He found me on the road to Dorthonion, and decided that it had been too long since he had visited...your side of the family.” Curufin raised an eyebrow at Fingon in disbelief, then turned his glance back to Finrod.

“Really?” Finrod shrugged, with just a hint of a smirk.

“Really, Atarinkë.”

“ _Findaráto_ -”

“Calm down, cousin, we all have a mother-name.”

The air seemed to thicken between them as Curufin’s cold glare came up short against Finrod’s calm, unruffled blue gaze, and Fingon felt suddenly as though he should be elsewhere.

“I’ll just...”

“Right.”

“Yes.”

Neither looked away as Fingon left, and he felt vaguely unsettled by it as he walked down the corridor towards Maitimo’s rooms.

***

Light, delicate notes drifted on the breeze out of the open window of Makalaurë’s airy, sunlit chamber. He plucked at the strings, ever pausing to murmur snatches of song and determine the path his tune should take across them.

_...hehtanë...húna... Uito – vanwa...vánië..._

The notes changed, shifting to a more melancholy key as Maglor closed his eyes and searched for the words.

_...entulessë nuhtalmë..._

His expression softened as the tune shifted again, echoing an older melody they had all once known.

_...rainë, rainë imíca ohta..._

_...rehtië cánë pella, ló Findekáno Astaldo..._

Irritation flashed across his features at the soft knock from the doorway, and he plucked a discord on purpose as he rose to answer it.

“New words for an old tune, Makalaurë – or a melancholy variant, perhaps?” Finrod’s smile was familiar and warm, and the disturbance in Maglor’s mood vanished at once.

“Come in, Findaráto, and lend your voice to the song. It is not yet all that it could be -”

“I care not what it could be, only if it will serve to drive your insufferable younger brother from my memory.” Maglor raised an eyebrow.

“I am sure we can go some way towards accomplishing that, cousin.”

“Good.” Finrod stepped lightly over to the unmade bed and threw himself down onto it, long limbs stretched out across the sheets in a parody of despair. “Sing to me, Káno, and banish the arrogance of those by the name of Curufinwë!”

Maglor only laughed, and picked up his harp.

***

“Maitimo...”

“Mm...”

“I missed you.”

“Findekáno, I...”

“You don’t have to, it’s -”

“Shh.”

“But -”

_“Shh.”_

_“Russandol -”_

“Yes, now hush -”

“Oh -”

“Mm.”

“Ah, Maitimo, come here -”

“Finno, we can’t -”

“ _You_ hush.”

“...”

“There, see...”

_“Finno...”_

***

Caranthir looked up from his pile of half-written letters as the library door opened slowly to admit Telperinquar. His nephew looked preoccupied and distant as he stepped inside and walked to the dustier shelves at the back, running a single finger over the covers until he found what he sought. Dust swirled in the sunlight as he lifted the large book from its place, and only as he carried it towards the desk did he mark that one of the chairs was already occupied.

“Tyel- Celebrimbor.” Caranthir’s voice was softer than usual as he shifted his papers to one end of the worn wooden table. “Sit down.” He nodded to the second chair, and after a moment of hesitation Celebrimbor set down the book and took the seat across the table from his uncle.

“Is that the record book of the Darkening?” Caranthir looked at it with interest.

“And the first year of Exile, yes.” A nod, and he turned back to organising his papers.

“You still have questions?” His tone was brisk and preoccupied, yet the underlying offer was clear.

“Of course I do.”

“You can ask me, you know. Or any of the others.”

“They wouldn’t tell me.”

“I will.”

Celebrimbor looked up then, and met Caranthir’s eyes with a look that mixed careful hope with unforgiving accusation. Caranthir held his gaze steadily, and did not look away from that fierce silver light even as he saw the truth of the questions which lay behind it.

“Fine.”

Caranthir inclined his head, and set down his pen with deliberate care.

“Why did you do it?”

“You may have to be more specific.” Celebrimbor let out a short huff of annoyance.

“Alright, then the Oath. Why?” He made the unfortunate decision to meet Caranthir’s eyes as he asked, and the flash of hidden fire he saw there was almost enough to make him reconsider the question. But he swallowed his doubts and sat a little straighter, and said nothing.

“It was no more of a choice than your decision to wake up each morning. He was our father, we are his sons – the greatest works of our Age had been stolen with fire and murder, and he did not need to call us to know we would stand by his side for our vengeance.” Caranthir paused, colour rising to his face at the memory of that darkness. “It is why we are here.”

He looked across the table to Telperinquar, and saw his nephew silent in thought.

“And all that followed, that was...”

“It was what had to be done.”

“How can you say that? Our _kin_ -”

“That’s _enough_ , Telperinquar.” He could tell he’d crossed a line – Caranthir’s features reminded him suddenly of a thunderstorm, his dark eyes taking the role of the lightning – but then it passed, and his uncle gathered his patience back to him with a visible effort. “You wanted to understand – that generally takes some effort on your part.”

Celebrimbor nodded and looked away. His uncle was silent for some minutes, and it took him most of those to form his next question.

“...the boats.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Silence, for a whole long minute.

“Because by that point he could not be reasoned with.”

Telperinquar needed no name to understand, or to picture the scene. He knew in his heart it was the face which had always accompanied his dreams of flames – the face which was so eerily mirrored in his own father.

“You tried?”

“Maitimo tried. That was enough.”

***

“Why did you come?”

“You called for me.”

“I did not -”

“Not on the page, not in the words, but it was written nonetheless.”

“Finno...”

Fingon pressed one finger to Maedhros’ lips, then followed it with his own. They tasted only of each other; in that hour nothing else could even touch their minds. Gladly they had embraced in body and spirit both, and the years between them had blown away in the summer wind as at last they knew each other wholly. Always they had held back, never allowed themselves that final completion – yet now they were one, and had at last resolved that they cared not who knew of it among their own. Worse deeds had been done; worse were undoubtedly to come – in the end, this would not matter.

And yet, and yet – it mattered more than the stars and the Moon and the bright young Sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter for - *gasp* - an entire week! Because I am going on holiday with my lovely partner, and nothing in Arda could convince me to take my laptop. Normal posting will resume on or after the 19th - and meanwhile you may get an answer from my tumblr, glorfindelsbitch, so message me, you lovely stalkers! ;)
> 
> (also, please forgive my Quenya. If it's that bad, just pretend Mags is being poetic or something - which to be fair, he most likely is.)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Updates will be somewhat less frequent now, though I will aim for one or two a week at least. Enjoy~!

Morning broke soft and golden over the tangled sheets of Maitimo’s bed. Findekáno stood at the western window, leaning back into Maitimo’s arms as he looked out towards the mountains that hid Dorthonion and the lands beyond. The words of the night before echoed in their minds; words spoken in love and truth in front of the highest authority known to Eä.

“What will your father say?” Findekáno sighed and turned away from the window; his messy, half-undone braids brushed lightly over Maitimo’s bare chest.

“I do not know.” Gentle fingers lifted Findekáno’s chin, and as their eyes met Maitimo thought how vulnerable he looked, how young and open now that all their barriers at last had fallen.

“When will you return to him?”

“I...” _He knows, Russandol, or he guesses at least..._ Maitimo’s arms tightened around him, and he closed his eyes for a moment. _He bade me take time to ‘examine my loyalties’ before returning._

_...do you wish to return?_

The response was formless, a press of homesick nostalgia mixed with apprehension and anxiety, and Maitimo felt new-formed instincts guiding him to comfort and hold in ways he had never known or imagined. They had been intimate before, of course – but this was beyond mere physicality, the sharing of fëa so complete they seemed to blend into one shining whole (though still there were parts marred and shadowed, still brief places blighted by their suffering and deeds of woe).

They stood naked in the sunlight, and even their own shadows came not between them.

***

The look of pure shock on Curufin’s too-perceptive face as he stood in the doorway, pale but resolute on his crutches, was almost worth the following barrage of what-in- _Arda_ -have-you- _DONE_ -Nelyafinwë-you-irresponsible- _idiot_ -do-you-even- _think_ -about-the-rest-of-us —and various other choice phrases besides, some of which caused Fingon to flush all the way up to his ears. Maedhros beside him was calm and silent, clearly waiting for his little brother to come to the natural end of his tirade.

“- and more than that, there’s the matter of our already fragile alliance with Mithrim, which you seem to have _completely_ disregarded-!” He broke off as Maglor entered the breakfast hall behind him with wide eyes and more than a little confusion showing on his face.

“Um... Maitimo?” Curufin let out a huff of annoyance and turned to leave, successfully tripping Celegorm with his crutches as he approached down the corridor. Tyelko swore as he stumbled into the hall, and then stopped short even as Maglor had. Silence stretched thin between them, then:

“...Really?”

Maglor turned to Celegorm with raised eyebrows when Maedhros did not respond.

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“Our brother’s name is hardly more imaginative, Káno, and besides I would imagine he’s heard it often enough already over the past hours.” Celegorm’s tone was acerbic, and Fingon flushed an even deeper shade of red as Maglor glanced awkwardly over to where the couple sat at the end of the table. Maedhros cleared his throat, and both brothers turned to look at him immediately with near-identical expressions of angry embarrassment.

“I believe, Tyelkormo, that is none of your business.” Maglor was quick to react before Celegorm could.

“You’ve made it everyone’s business, Nelyo -”

“No, you have taken a private act and made it public simply because of the individuals involved.”

“But the political repercussions-!”

“- will be dealt with when they arise.” Maglor looked conflicted and uncertain, pragmatism and anxiety warring with the instinctive wish to just be happy for his elder brother, but Celegorm was having none of it.

“I don’t care why you thought this was a good idea – it wasn’t. You two -” he glared at Maedhros and Fingon both, ignoring the barely-concealed distress on his cousin’s face, “have singlehandedly screwed up just about everything we’ve tried to fix since getting here.”

“Tyelko, hold on -”

“Oh, Káno, shut up – can’t you see this is a disaster waiting to happen?”

“Tyelkormo, _we_ are a disaster waiting to happen.”

Maedhros raised an eyebrow at Fingon as Celegorm left the hall with a black look at Maglor.

_I told you we’d hardly have to say anything._

_Regardless, this is truly awful._

_I won’t argue with that._

Maglor looked awkwardly up towards the head of the table.

“Um.” The shuffle of his soft shoes on the cold flagstones seemed too loud in the empty silence. “...congratulations, I suppose.”

***

As soon as Telperinquar stepped into his father’s room he knew he had made a mistake. Curufin was sitting at his desk with a furious expression, splinted leg stretched out in an uncomfortable-looking position as he scribbled angrily on an ink-stained piece of parchment. He did not look up, and as Tyelpë backed out of the door he heard a string of muttered curse words.

“Oh – I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” The musical voice of his father’s cousin felt oddly jarring to Celebrimbor, and as he quickly apologised and stepped away (backing into the corridor without looking had definitely been a mistake) he felt the prickling scrutiny of Findaráto’s cool blue gaze flicker over him.

“I, um, do you know what’s going on?” He nodded to the closed door of his father’s room, feeling more like a child than he ever did in the presence of his uncles. Finrod frowned and cocked his head slightly as if listening a moment for something beyond Tyelpë’s perception.

“I believe it most likely has something to do with the fact that your eldest uncle has technically married his cousin.”

Curufin opened the door just in time to see disbelieving shock spread over Telperinquar’s face as Finrod smiled with the slightly vindictive satisfaction that comes from being the first to deliver news with such an excellent shock factor.

“Really, Findaráto?!”

“What’s the matter? Did you wish to tell your son this news yourself?” The golden voice was suddenly harder, and Tyelpë found himself wishing he was anywhere else at all.

“If you tell _anyone_ outside of our family -”

“How exactly are you defining ‘family’, Curufinwë?”

“Not those half-Telerin brats which pass for your siblings.”

Telperinquar’s gasp was far too loud in the electrified silence that followed.


	21. Chapter 21

The air of the room was thick with the sweat and tears of nightmare; leftover horror almost palpable as Maedhros opened the window and let silver moonlight fall onto the damp, twisted sheets where his littlest brother sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, arms loose at his sides as his fingers plucked at a frayed corner of the bedding. He did not look up as Maedhros returned to sit beside him, and silence lingered heavily between them.

“You know that one of you will die first.” Amras’ voice was thin and hoarse, but his tone made it clear that it was not a question.

“Neither of us need die at all, if we -”

“Maitimo, we are all going to die here.” Silence stretched out through the room once more, and the moonlight faltered as a cloud crept over its source.

“You don’t know that.” Denial and hope played together in the undercurrent of Maedhros’ voice, and the result sounded rather more certain than he felt.

“I do not need to know it to feel it.”

“Amras...”

“You shouldn’t have let him leave here.”

“He had to return to his father -”

“Staying away from each other won’t make it hurt any less.”

“That’s not -”

“Why are you even trying?!” He looked up then, eyes bright and fists clenched in the sheets, and Maedhros met his bitter despair with calm drawn from some new-formed place he knew was a shared resource (he could feel Findekáno there too, finding stability in their shared peace as he rode towards an uncertain welcome).

“Because there must be some joy this side of the Sea.”

The look in Amras’ eyes as hot tears spilled down his cheeks and his voice fell to a whisper was enough to make Maedhros wish he had not spoken.

“There is none, and you should not try to find it.”

***

The lake sparkled in the morning sunshine as Fingon rode down the last mile towards his father’s stronghold, heart fluttering in his throat as he felt his choices like a glowing beacon in his eyes: _look at me, see what I have done_. The blue-and-silver banner flowed proudly in the wind above the tallest tower, and Fingon’s breath caught as he saw the flash of his brother’s harness on the horse that now was riding up to meet him.

The hoofbeats slowed as they approached; Fingon saw a frown crease Turgon’s brow as the distance vanished between them – and the dull drop of his heart as he saw shock and denial flash over his brother’s face was unpleasantly nauseating.

_“Findekáno?!”_

“I -”

“You _idiot!”_

“Turno, wait -”

“Don’t you see?!” Some other emotion flickered in Turgon’s eyes; for a moment Fingon saw cold blue memories and heard the squeal of breaking ice – but then it was gone, and only his brother’s furious glare remained, full of accusation and bitterness. “You have damned yourself just as surely as those brothers have – while we at least have a chance, you know that they do not!”

“What are you talking about? If we were to succeed -”

“You know what they swore! You know what they _did -_ ”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t be happy!”

“It means exactly that, and you know it! Whether in a hundred years or a thousand, their doom will find them, and you – you -” He broke off, unshed tears glistening over the fury in his eyes as he let their shared memories of the crossing fill the silence – _eyes blue as the ice and skin even colder, sleepless nights and days of mindless pain, the unending ache of fëa torn apart, an unbreakable union broken_ – all this and more he pressed into his brother’s mind, and the guilt that twisted inside him as tears spilled down Findekáno’s cheeks was as nothing compared to the fear he felt for his brother’s future.

***

“No, no, you’re right, the political implications are disastrous,” Caranthir took another swig from the half-empty bottle set on the table between him and Maglor, “but I can’t help wondering if it is really worse than the other mistakes we have made?”

“What do you mean?” Maglor took the bottle almost before he could set it down again, closing his eyes as he drank.

“Alqualondë, for a start.” Maglor choked on his mouthful of potent wine, and Caranthir passed him a cloth without a trace of apology in his tone. “If our families could move on from that, they can move on from this.”

“I...suppose you have a point.”

“And the Helcaraxë did not stop Nolofinwë from cooperating in alliance with us when it came to battle.”

“No, but...”

“Really though, at the risk of sounding overly sentimental – is love truly that much worse than hate?”

Maglor sighed and shook his head but did not answer.

***

“Why did you say that to Finrod?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Telperinquar.” Curufin’s expression was cold, and the flicker in his eyes at his son’s persistent use of their family’s Sindarised names was even colder.

“The only reason I don’t understand is because you never tell me anything.” Tyelpë’s tone was sullen, and he looked younger than his years as he sat across the table from his father in the library, a book of Valinorean history spread between them. “I am no longer a child, father.”

“You are not yet mature enough to comprehend our reasons – you showed that five nights ago at dinner with your uncles.”

“I showed nothing of the sort – they listened to me, and told me what you never would!”

“I withheld the full tale only because I wished to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting -”

“You may no longer count yourself a child, but there are many things in this world you have yet to experience. You have not seen what we have, you have not -”

“I have seen my grandfather set flame to the boat which held my uncle.”

Silence settled like a shroud over the dusty library.

“That... was a mistake.”

“Is that all you can say in your defence?”

“Telperinquar, enough.” Curufin’s tone was icy. “Do not presume to lecture me on what you wilfully refuse to understand.”

“I understand enough!”

“You do not.”

“Why -” His father cut him off with a look; the silence thickened between them for several long moments.

“If you truly understood, you would wish to follow us.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Oath.”

Was that a flicker of fire in his father’s dark grey eyes?

Celebrimbor’s chair scraped on the flagstones as he pushed it back and stood up.

_“No.”_

“Sit down, Telperinquar.”

“I will not -”

_“Sit down,_ and listen if you truly wish for answers.”

Tyelpë sat down.


	22. Chapter 22

“Findekáno, I am disappointed.”

“Disappointed that I am happy?”

“Do not speak of happiness! You have – bound yourself,” here a look of disgust crossed Fingolfin’s dark countenance, “to the firstborn of the family with the least honour among the Noldor, to kinslayers and deserters – you have given them the means by which to reclaim the power and leadership that we hold – and by the Valar, Findekáno, Maitimo is your cousin!” Nolofinwë was standing now, one fist clenched on the table where a moment ago he had struck it, his eyes like coals as he glared at his eldest son.

“He is my husband!”

“Are you then his woman?” Fingon flushed with anger at that, and tried in vain to keep his hands from trembling.

“I am no-one’s woman!”

“No? Just a thoughtless, inconsiderate, impulsive child?”

“Father -” Fingolfin’s eyes were cold, like merciless ice.

“Get out of my sight, Findekáno.”

Silence sliced across the air between them as Fingon paled and quickly turned to leave. Someone called after him as he hurried down the corridors to his room, but he was shaking and his sight was beginning to blur with tears – he ignored the voice and broke into a run as he turned the last corner, barely able to discern the carved detail of his door as finally he reached it and fumbled with the lock. It closed with a dull click behind him, and he sank to the floor with his back pressed against the hard wood, eyes closed as hot tears spilled onto his cheeks.

_Maitimo!_

And then the warmth was there, the comfort which no distance could now rob them of, and he felt his cousin’s presence as clearly as if he were there beside him; loving arms and a hand to wipe his tears, quiet words to reassure his shaken composure. With something beyond words he told him of the reactions he had faced, and the returning love that surrounded him was tender and soothing, the perfect balm for his hurts.

Minutes passed, no more, and he rose from the floor with steady breaths and a calm mind once again; walking to the window he looked out towards high peaks lit red by the setting sun, and his thoughts were clear as he asked:

_What of your brothers?_

Unease showed behind the sympathy, pricking through the smooth silk of their love like a thousand needles, and Fingon shivered.

_Curvo will not speak to me. Amras will not speak at all._

_Makalaurë?_

_Somehow he seems the least discomfited by this. Perhaps to him we now have repaired one of those many customs which have over the years been broken by our union?_

Fingon almost laughed at that; leaning out into the fresh breeze he smiled up at the reddened peaks of the mountains – they were no barrier now, and despite the words of his family he did not regret their decision. He did not turn as a soft knock sounded at the door, and only as it opened with a slow creak did he bring focus back to where he stood. He felt the gentle _farewell_ more than he heard it in his mind; Maitimo either knew of his distraction or had one of his own.

The voice behind him did not hold anger, surprisingly enough, only some kind of sadness.

“Fin, what have you done?”

***

Maedhros sighed and looked across the table to where Maglor was distractedly plucking at his harp. The two of them were alone in the hall, and silence had settled rather uncomfortably between them as the minutes stretched on.

“You can look at me, you know.”

“You look weird now.” Maglor’s tone was almost sulky; certainly Maedhros had not heard his voice that way since they were children, and almost it brought a smile to his face even as he shook his head and sighed.

“I looked ‘weird’ after – when Findekáno brought me back, and you looked at me then.” Maglor looked even more uncomfortable at that, and actually plucked a wrong note (which caused such an incongruous expression of distaste to cross his face that Maedhros almost laughed out loud).

“That was different.”

“Exactly. Káno, don’t you see -”

“Yes, I do see; that’s the problem.” He looked up at Maedhros then, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since that morning of the week before, and Maedhros saw the difference there reflected back through his brother’s perception. “It’s like – do you remember ammë and atya, before Tyelko was born?” Maedhros nodded; it hurt to think back to those times, but the memories still remained.

Maglor hesitated, dropping his gaze once more to the table. “It’s like looking at them.”

“...oh.”

The silence returned, leaning heavily on the space between them.

“It’s like looking at everything we left behind.”

“Káno...”

“No – don’t apologise. It’s yours; your piece of happiness. No-one could say you don’t deserve it.”

“There are some who would argue otherwise.”

“Then they can argue with my sword. Damn it – whatever may come of this, at least now you won’t have to -” Maglor broke off, refusing to voice the rest of his thought. Maedhros nodded and picked up his cup of wine again.

“I know.”

“Nelyo, I just -”

“Thankyou, Káno.”

***

“When are you going to leave?” Curufin’s tone was icy, but it did nothing to shift the calm smirk which had made itself at home across Finrod’s lips.

“When your brother and I have finished composing our new song, of course.”

“And how long is that going to take?” Finrod shrugged, his smirk widening slightly as he saw Curufin’s patience wearing thinner.

“You cannot rush art, cousin dearest.”

“Half-cousin, Findaráto.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

***

“Írissë, I -”

“I would ask why Turno’s locked himself in his room or why Father looks more angry than he has for several centuries, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer.” Fingon sighed.

“Are you going to yell at me too?”

“No.” Aredhel crossed the room and sat down on Fingon’s bed, crossing her legs and patting the sheets next to her. “I’m going to ask why you did it, and you’d better have a damn good answer.”

“But -”

“Because I’m going to have to convince Father not to send you straight back to them, if he can’t see reason on his own.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, there's another relationship tag! I wonder why that might be?
> 
> Don't say I didn't warn you~

The library was cold as thick clouds crept across the setting sun. Grey gloom lingered in the corners, but a lamp burned brightly on the table between father and son – and yellow light gleamed upon polished steel as Telperinquar grasped the hilt of his father’s sword with tight, nervous fingers and willed his hands to keep from shaking.

“Are you ready?”

“...yes.”

“You recall the words?”

“Yes.”

The shelves of dusty books frowned silently upon the scene as Curufinwë waited for his son to begin. Seconds ticked past in ever-deeper quiet; grey eyes hardened as silver glances darted in nervous avoidance across the corners of the room.

“Telperinquar.” The voice was hard and cool, a perfect match for the bare steel upon the desk.

“I -”

“What is the matter?”

The rough exhalation of Tyelpë’s breath sounded gratingly loud in the silence, and he gripped the sword a little tighter as uncertainty hardened suddenly within his heart into defiant resolve.

“I can’t do this.”

“Tyelpë -”

“I won’t.”

Curufin’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he drew in a sharp breath – but whatever he had planned to say was lost as the library door opened and the golden figure silhouetted in the bright light of the corridor froze in horrified shock.

“Curufinwë Atarinkë, what in Arda are you _doing?!”_

Curufin’s voice was a hiss, and his eyes were like flames.

“Findaráto, I swear -”

“Oh you swear, do you? Like you swore, back in Tirion when you damned yourself and your brothers to -”

“Get out! This is none of your concern -”

“It is in every way my concern when you plan to drag your own son down with you into this darkness!” Celebrimbor realised that he had never seen Finrod angry before; bright blue eyes like sharpened ice and that lyrical voice raised in passionate fury – under this, he felt no stronger than a sapling in a storm. His father, by contrast, was an unforgiving grey cliff, stone and steel and nothing that would yield or break to any force other than his own.

“He swears by his own choice – and he is my son, not yours!”

“If you push him into this he will become no-one’s son!”

“Am _I_ no-one’s son?”

“You are the son of Fëanáro, and that is worse by far!”

The ringing silence was broken by the clatter of steel on stone as the sword slipped from the table; Telperinquar stared in disbelief as the spell of his father’s words shattered into fragments, shocked realisation piercing the haze of idealism and vengeance which Curufinwë had cultivated between them.

He saw how close he had come to the edge of nightmare, and ran from the room before his father could speak a single word more.

In the library behind him, fire met ice as two opposing wills stared each other down.

“You ignorant, _disrespectful -”_

“You utter _imbecile,_ Atarinkë, how _could_ you -”

“It was _his choice -”_

“We all knew your father, _Curufinwë!_ Drop the pretence – you have his skill with words, and you used every drop of it!”

“So what if I did?!” They were dangerously close now, so close that Curufin could feel the heat of Finrod’s anger – a deep flush highlighted his cheekbones, and as he drew breath to reply Curufin saw unexpected malice in the curl of his lip. The golden voice dropped to a hiss, and unconsciously Finrod stepped closer – the light was behind him now, and the fractional difference in their height seemed magnified as Curufin found himself in his cousin’s shadow.

“You have _no right_ to make that decision for him.” Blue eyes met steel grey, and the only sound in the space between was fast heartbeats and angry breaths. _“You can only damn yourself.”_

Curufin’s fist moved quicker than sight, but Finrod was faster still, and in a breathless moment he was pinned against the books with his wrist above his head – and in a moment where neither knew quite what was happening (only that they hated each other, of course this burning was the flames of hatred) their lips met in a kiss of searing hate and passion which overwhelmed reason entirely.

Neither knew who had closed the brief space between; both responded on instinct as rage twisted itself into desire and Curufin’s free hand grabbed a rough handful of Finrod’s golden hair, pulling him closer for the moments while their delusion lasted. Lips parted in some hate-fuelled contest of new-met tongues and teeth that found the other’s lips until they tasted blood – and when, as one, they realised their reality and pulled sharply away, the only emotion left to them was shock.

Several seconds later, the dusty shelves frowned down upon a forgotten sword, three books knocked from their places, and silence.

***

_The sound of the wind was familiar to Fingon as it whistled through his dreams – but this time something was off, it felt different and worse, and he could not place why. He fought to uncover the secrets of the darkness about him – the sooner he faced the ice, the sooner he would wake, or so it had always been – but as light began gradually to filter into the dream the feeling of unease only grew. This was unfamiliar to him._

_And then he realised what it was._

_The wind was about him, and above him, but also it was below him._

_Full sensation asserted itself with a rush of jarring pain; Fingon felt sharp rocks at his back tearing at wounds old and new – but worse still was the ceaseless agony flooding his right arm, from his aching, twisted shoulder all the way up to his painfully numb fingertips. He blinked away tears drawn by wind and pain and tried to look down – the Sun was dazzlingly bright, and the sharp grey stone far below seemed to waver and shimmer like water as vertigo washed over him._

_He cried out for help; someone, anyone, surely there were other things than darkness in this place – but the wind snatched his thin voice far away and left him entirely alone._

_He closed his eyes, and that was worse._

Fingon jerked awake as images of true horror began to cover the nightmare; the windless dark of his room was reassuringly solid, yet still he did not feel entirely free of the dream. He shivered as he got up and walked to the moonlit window – unease had settled deep within him and he felt the nightmare still; an independent creature which could not be destroyed even by waking.

The realisation hit him at the same time as the unease crystallised into continuing terror – he had not escaped the nightmare, for his other half was still trapped within it.

_Maitimo –_

A wave of horror and dizzying half-formed memories washed over him, and he leaned heavily on the cold stones of the window as he struggled to maintain both his balance and his hold on wakefulness. The room seemed dim as he sank to the floor under another mental onslaught, eyes wide as he attempted to break free of the projected nightmare.

But it would not release him, and with awful certainty he realised that there was only one way to stop the dream and free them both.

He closed his eyes and plunged back into the nightmare with conscious intent.

_This time he was a spectator, watching powerlessly as Morgoth’s most trusted lieutenant played with Maitimo like a cat with a slowly dying mouse._

_“Now, now, pretty Russandol... we wouldn’t want you to spoil that lovely voice of yours...” The voice was a purr, a deadly undercurrent which by rights should have been lost beneath Maitimo’s screams – yet somehow it held the most power of any sound in that place. “All you need do is tell me... tell me all about that nasty family of yours – you remember, don’t you; the ones who abandoned you...” The screams grew more desperate, and Fingon fought the urge to look away – he was here for a reason, he had to stop this – with an effort he forced himself further into the dream, and everything became horribly solid around him as he stepped up behind his love’s tormentor and thrust his sword deep into the creature’s back._

_The dream shifted as Gorthaur the Cruel dissolved into flames, and Fingon took both Maitimo’s hands in his and kissed them._

_“Wake, my love. It is over.”_

Fingon did not open his eyes, but the dream faded to black nothing and the cold stones of his chamber wall returned as the only sensation against his trembling hands. Far-off yet present in his mind he could feel confusion mixed with exhausted gratitude, yet somehow neither had the strength for words as the night wore on towards the approaching dawn.

Findekáno looked at the memories he had been shown, and resolved that he would save Maitimo every night from now until eternity if it would go even the smallest way towards his healing.

Dawn came at last, and dried the tears left untended on his cheeks.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update - I'm trapped in a house with almost as many siblings as Maitimo. Will try to get a chapter out every week or so now :)

Findaráto left the next day. Before the dawn he visited Makalaurë’s room, and the final strains of their song drifted upwards through the deep blue of the sunless airs about Himring; soft music mingling with the slowly fading stars.

Curufinwë lay awake and listened, and found he hated every note.

***

“Írissë.”

“Father.” Aredhel inclined her head and took a seat across the table from Fingolfin.

“Is this about Findekáno?”

“Of course.”

“Írissë -”

“No, Father. Listen to me, please.”

A tense silence stretched between them, tight like a taut bowstring. Then Nolofinwë nodded once, and the room seemed to breathe again. Aredhel looked up to meet her father’s eyes with unshakeable conviction.

“This is not the disaster you believe it to be.” She took a breath, realising she would receive no answer until she had said all that she had come to say. “Findekáno – your son – has found happiness against all our odds. Think of it, Father – when we came here, through loss and pain worse than any among us could have foretold, did you expect our fate in these lands to be a joyful one?” Aredhel paused, hesitating for a short moment before continuing. “I know what you would say – you would speak of our close kinship, of the unbreakable doom which lies upon the sons of Fëanor – but do not forget that doom which lies upon us also. Surely it is better to love while we can, no matter the losses to come?” She hesitated again – the next words seemed almost reluctant, as if she drew them from some place usually denied and ignored within her own mind. “And as to the kinship – worse deeds than this have been wrought by our hands. If any laws are left for us to break, surely this must be the one with the least consequence.”

Fingolfin watched his daughter as she blinked away the memories of their misdeeds and met his eyes with calm surety. He could not deny the sense in her words, though every instinct told him no good could possibly come of it.

“What then would you have me do? The political repercussions alone will be -”

“Let Findekáno deal with those consequences. He will have caused them when they come, after all.” Aredhel smiled, but it did not touch her eyes. “And let him be happy. Do not react as Fëanáro would have.”

Fingolfin opened his mouth as if to speak, but words fell far short of his thought. There was the truth of it, in that final sentence; his brother – _half-brother,_ something inside him whispered – would never have suffered such a union to exist.

And for that reason just as much as for any other – he would surely have to.

***

Maedhros’ chamber was lit only by cold moonlight as his pen scratched over the paper set before him. This was no letter – simply his oft-neglected handwriting practice, that endless source of frustration which Carnistir had insisted upon as soon as it became necessary. Dark ink dotted the thin page, and the shapes of his letters were far closer to the wavering angles of a child’s first attempts than they were in any way alike to the sweeping curves and precise notation his lost hand had always produced.

_Swirling whiteness, a blizzard of ice before his eyes –_

Maedhros blinked and set down his pen. He was all but certain that flash of memory had not come from his own mind.

_Findekáno?_

There was no response. An unpleasant certainty began to insinuate itself into the corners of Maitimo’s mind, and –

_A familiar voice wrenched in a scream, the crack of ice breaking and falling and crashing down into nothingness –_

He pushed away from the desk and stood up, walking quickly to the window and looking out westward across the darkened miles.

_Findekáno!_

In reply, the nightmare’s grip intensified.

_The bite of the cold at his skin, the nauseating sensation of heartbreak and anger mixed with the stubborn wish to forgive, to know the truth (he could not have done it, he would not have, never), to love –_

Maedhros gasped as his own senses returned once more, guilt twisting in his stomach as his reluctant mind named the scene at last for what it was.

_Through the whirling ice, a dark and starlit sky. Through the pain and denial, a curse on every one of his already-damned cousins._

_Even the one he claimed to love._

***

“You look tired.”

“Keen observation, Káno.” Maglor sighed and made a face at his elder brother across the breakfast table.

“Come on, what is it?”

“Nothing. I can be tired without a quantifiable reason, you know.”

“You could, but you’re not.” The voice was Curufin’s, and his glance was far too sharp for Maedhros’ comfort.

“And why does it matter? You’re hardly looking well-rested yourself – care to give us a reason too?”

“I was making notes on the refining of certain metals.” Curvo’s answer was smooth and natural as always, but it did not ring true for either of the eldest two. “And besides, I am still recovering from a relatively serious injury.” Maglor raised an eyebrow at that, but did not comment.

“Fine.” Maedhros’ tone was clipped and without patience. “If you must know, I was doing more of that damned writing practice which Moryo insists upon.” He looked between his brothers, hoping that his expression would combine with the near-taboo subject of his hand and shut them up for once. It seemed to work – that is, for the few moments before Telperinquar walked into the hall, saw his father, and walked out again much faster with all the colour gone from his face.

“Curvo, what have you done now?”

“Why do you always assume that his issues are my fault?”

“Because they always are.” Maglor folded his arms and watched Curufin across the table – his brother was a near-perfect liar, but even he had to show the occasional crack in that perfect emotional mask. At that moment his lips were set in the thin line of anger, and his dark grey eyes held a warning which surely covered some other, less desirable emotion.

“This one is not. He merely made a decision, then reneged upon it when faced with carrying out his choice.”

Maedhros fixed his younger brother with a searching glare as a dreadful suspicion took shape in his mind.

“What decision was this?”

“It matters not.”

_“What decision, Curufinwë?”_

Tense silence filled the room as Maitimo’s suspicion grew with every unanswered moment.

“You asked him to swear the Oath.” The words fell like knives onto the table between the brothers.

“Nelyafinwë, it -”

“Get out of my halls.”

“I -”

_“Now.”_


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well holy shit it's been a month... I am so sorry, and I can't yet make any promises of speeding up again. Life is, well, life, and I'm stuck in this particular part of it for at least another month.
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy what little I can give you, and feedback = motivation as usual. :P

“I feel ‘disaster’ is far too kind a term for this.” Maglor’s words were bitter, and he did not look up from the map spread between him and his elder brother. Maedhros, for his part, ignored him for several long moments, frowning over the boundary lines scratched in dark red across the thick paper. When he finally spoke, it was with that same air of deadly calm that had pervaded his words since the morning before – the forced coolness which Makalaurë knew could easily snap with just the slightest extra pressure.

“I assume you are not referring to the sudden disappearance of every Orc-pack between here and Angband.”

“No.”

“In that case, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Nelyo -”

“Shut up, Kanafinwë.”

Maglor shut up.

***

“Damn it, Curvo, I thought you had more sense than this.”

“Will you shut your useless mouth?”

Celegorm shot his brother a disgusted glance as he slowed his horse to a walk. The Pass of Aglon was clear now, almost eerily quiet at this time of day – there was no need to hurry, and indeed no wish to after such a rushed exit from their elder brother’s fortress.

“At least my ‘useless mouth’ didn’t get us kicked out of Himring.”

“How was I supposed to know Nelyo would overreact like that?”

“With all due respect – which, at the moment, is not a lot – I wouldn’t call that an overreaction.”

“It was his choice -”

“That might fool the others, but I can see right through you, Curvo – no way was that his choice.”

“What are you talking about?”

Celegorm reluctantly met Curufin’s eyes as their horses drew level once more, and was not at all surprised or affected by the look of cold anger in his dark glare.

“I’m talking about your obsession with becoming our father – to the point of almost convincing your own son to damn himself just like we did. Luckily for him, you didn’t inherit quite the full extent of Father’s manipulative, hypnotic –”

The words died on his lips as out of the corner of his eye he saw Curufin’s hand settle on the hilt of his sword.

“Think very carefully before you say another word, Turcafinwë.”

***

“So.” Caranthir placed his elbows on the table, clasped his hands beneath his chin, and took a long look at his nephew. “You do have some sense, then.”

“I -”

“It wasn’t a question, Celebrimbor.” He paused, taking in the mixture of fear and defiance on the young face before him. “Would you like to tell me why you chose not to return to Himlad with your father and uncle this morning?”

Telperinquar paused, as if searching for an answer he had not yet even considered. Uncertainty lingered in his silver eyes, and he did not meet his uncle’s steady gaze.

“I... I do not think they want me now. I did not do...as my father wished.”

Caranthir sighed. If this was the reaction one piece of unwanted disobedience could bring, Curvo was even more of an idiot than he had thought. He decided to try and mitigate some of the damage.

“Something this big – and this is about as big as it gets – is not about what other people want you to do. If you know the words, then you know that we’re all damned if we don’t succeed – that’s not something you sign yourself up for unless you are utterly certain you want to give your life to it.” He looked at Celebrimbor again, waiting for him to meet his eyes before continuing. “And you’re not. So don’t do it – though I doubt your father will try that again, after Nelyo’s reaction.”

Celebrimbor nodded, and looked down at his hands as he twisted his fingers together in his lap. Caranthir sighed again.

“Maitimo is not angry with you. Only with your father.”

As relief coloured those young silver eyes, a knock sounded at the door.

***

Finrod was tired when he finally reached Dorthonion. His horse was probably more tired, but then his horse hadn’t had to deal with a mind full of the most irritating Fëanorian to ever mess with the balance of Arda. And his dark, fire-filled eyes.

So it was that he did not immediately realise that his sister was also a guest in his brothers’ halls.

“Findaráto.”

“Artanis? I thought you were in Doriath -”

“I am. Usually. But when my elder brother is getting involved with this amount of stupidity, I feel obliged to take a holiday.”

Finrod groaned. This was _not_ what he had had in mind for the evening.

“Curufinwë is a -”

“Please, Artanis, for the love of...whatever it is the Doriathrim are into, let me have a bath and a bite to eat before you start on my latest moral failings. And I’m not even going to ask how you know about it.”

“Fine. I’ll be outside your rooms after sundown.”

“You don’t even know which rooms -”

But she was already gone, and Finrod had a feeling that she did know which rooms he’d be in, even if he didn’t yet.


	26. Chapter 26

Fingon was in a black mood. His sister could see it in the set of his shoulders as he stepped into the library, no doubt looking for some text or other on the precise nature of osanwë connections – it was all he seemed to read about these past weeks, and Írissë was rather tired of it (though of course she understood his reasons). She looked up from the unfinished poem before her, and raised an eyebrow at her elder brother.

“Bad day, Finno?”

“You have no idea.” The reply came through tightly set teeth – his voice was low in pitch and patience, and Írissë frowned in concern.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know – something’s happened, something awful – but he won’t tell me, and I’m sick of the games and avoidance and just – everything!” Aredhel could see the barely-contained energy of his anger; a cloud of dust followed the swift yanking of a book from its place, and the muted thud of the cover meeting the heavy cloth which covered the table resounded through the wood down to the floor. Slowly she got up, circling around to his side of the table and placing gentle fingers across his hand where it still held the book. She could feel a slight tremble in his fingers; behind the anger was more than a little fear, and for a moment Írissë was struck by the unfamiliarity of a connection such as the one she could feel and see in her brother. Certainly, she knew love – her family, her friends, all those who were dear to her (and she had felt loss, yes, of some terrible kinds) – yet this soul-deep bond was like to nothing in herself; she was whole alone, and as she watched her brother’s suffering she thought that she would prefer to stay that way.

“Ai, Findekáno. You are a fool.” He made to pull his hand away at that, but she curled her fingers around his and held him still, her voice gentle. “What did you expect, binding yourself to the eldest son of Fëanáro?” She paused, watching some of the tension drain away from Fingon as he sighed in reluctant acquiescence. “He will be okay. If it was the kind of terrible thing that would affect you as well, he would tell you – you’ve always known that branch of our family has more drama than most; the only difference is that now you can feel it too.”

Fingon nodded, and sighed, and tried to ignore the relentless trickle of anger and outrage that darkened his fëa with each passing moment.

***

“Fëanorians are bad news.”

“I _know,_ Artanis, you don’t need to tell me that.”

“It would appear that I do.”

_“Ugh.”_

Finrod lay across the wide bed, dressed only in a silken robe and with his hair tangled and damp against the sheets. He didn’t bother to sit up as his sister circled the room like an impatient cat, preferring instead to express the depth of his last statement by spreading his arms across the pillows in a dramatic movement which raised a thin cloud of dust to hover above him and shimmer in the pale moonlight.

“What were you thinking?!” Artanis did not wait for an answer. “Of all the cousins you could have chosen to – to fool around with, you pick _him?_ You -”

“I didn’t _pick_ anyone! Nothing happened – well, it did, but it certainly wasn’t _planned_ – by the Valar, Artanis -”

“Don’t -”

“Then don’t lecture me on the ins and outs of morality amongst damned Exiles and kinslayers!”

“My point exactly.” Artanis’ voice was icy. _“Kinslayers.”_

“...you shouldn’t -”

“No, _you_ shouldn’t.”

The pause that stretched between them was long, and cold, and dripping with Artanis’ bitter judgement. Finrod sounded almost defeated when he spoke again.

“I know. Alright?” Artanis made no reply, and after a moment he continued. “I know, and I shouldn’t have done it, and if I ever see him again I’ll make sure to be as scathing and disdainful as ever you could wish for.”

“You won’t see him again for a long time now.”

“I don’t care.”

“If you say so.”

***

_What is it?_

_I told you, it’s nothing._

_It’s not!_

Maedhros sighed heavily and turned away from the window. The stars were cold, and somehow he didn’t care to look at them with this discord in his mind and heart.

_I can’t tell you._

_Yes you can._

_It is...a family matter._

_Then what am I?_

He could still feel them. The silvered light prickled his awareness with the judgement it had carried ever since that first night, that night _alone in the cold with nothing to stand on not even the faintest of hopes –_

_...what was that?_

_Memories. I am tired; I apologise._

_Tell me._

_..._

_Russ –_

_Curufinwë almost coerced Telperinquar into swearing the Oath._

_..._

_I told you it was nothing you would care to hear._

_..._

_...Finno?_

_I’m here. Your family is a mess._

A sound left Maedhros’ lips that might almost have been a laugh, and as he turned again to face the window the Moon began to rise above the hills.

_Our family is a mess, Findekáno._

_Yes. Our family._

***

The Moon sank low, and unrest awoke beneath the trees of Himlad.

“I saw it in your dream! You – damned _Ingoldo_ of all people -”

“You saw nothing! You know nothing, you – _don’t come near me!”_

“Curvo, you idiot, you have to calm down -”

“Stay out of my dreams!”

“You dragged me into it! What does that say about your need for my -”

“It says _nothing,_ don’t make excuses, you just wanted to find a reason to -”

“To what? To tell you what I think of your attempts at bringing our family together? Because I don’t need an excuse to do that, I can tell you right now that you’re dragging us deeper into this hell just like Father did, just like you think you should be doing anyway, and I can’t, _I won’t let you -”_

_“Shut up and get out of my sight.”_

“Oh, end the conversation on your terms, hold all the power and make everyone listen to you – _isn’t that right, Curufinwë?”_

“Damn you to the Void, I -!”

“Oh, we already are! Together, in case that had escaped you!”

“Just – _stop!”_

_“Make me, Atarinkë!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left the final scene more unfinished than most - on purpose. Complete it however you wish in your imagination. ;)


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an explanation of Maitimo's behaviour, see my other work, "Amras". It may be getting a new chapter soon, and then things will be made even clearer. 
> 
> Here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5848813   
> (but please, heed the tag warnings.)

Findekáno awoke with a start amidst sheets tangled and damp with sweat – yet no memory could he find of any dream, and morning was still many hours away. Tentatively he reached out, feeling darkness of some kind shrouding the connection between them; perhaps Maitimo was asleep, though some instinct told him it was not so.

_Maitimo...?_

There was no response, but Fingon felt his heartbeat quicken and heat touch his cheeks – his room was too stuffy, surely, and as he got up and walked to open the window he tried again.

_Russandol –_

_Not now. I’m sorry._

The words stung like a blow – uncertainty and fear twisted in Findekáno’s stomach as he stared out at the moonless night, feeling lost and confused and even a little angry. Surely he deserved an explanation – whatever this was, it was affecting him as well. And then – _oh,_ then a shiver of too-hot darkness rippled across the miles and into his mind, and Findekáno gripped the windowsill for support with shaky hands as he felt himself stir inside his silken pyjamas, an almost painful arousal drawn from he knew not what –

_What are you doing?!_

No answer came; yet something closed between them, some mental door that Findekáno knew not how to unlock – fear replaced any desire he had felt, and he called out with desperation –

_Maitimo!_

But he knew instinctively that his thought had not reached his cousin, and as he stood frozen in shock a disbelieving sob worked itself free from his throat. This – this was not supposed to happen. Not now, not after all they had faced together... The one he had bared his soul to had closed his mind to him, keeping secrets in the dark, and it _hurt._

***

Curufinwë awoke alone.

The morning light was yellow and fresh; not long past dawn, he thought – but his brother was nowhere to be seen, and his horse was missing from the clearing also; a conspicuous absence, and one that made Curvo sigh in irritation as he got up from the grass and pulled on his dew-damp clothes. There was a tear near the collar of his tunic – yet another outfit ruined by grass stains and violence, a fact that only turned Curufin’s mood to a darker shade as he climbed up onto his horse and set off in the direction they had been going the night before. _Damn_ Tyelkormo – he just had to make every situation ten times worse than it already was.

_You’re an ass._

_That’s rich, coming from you._ Tyelko’s reply was immediate; he must have been waiting, listening, and that just made Curvo even more angry.

_Don’t you ever know when to leave well alone?_

_Do you know what a hypocrite is, Curufinwë dear?_

Curufin swore under his breath, and urged his horse a little faster.

_Where are you?_

_I took a detour; you won’t catch me._

_I will eventually, you insufferable bastard._

_Again, look up “hypocrite” in Father’s old word-books and let me know what you think._

_I hate you._

_You really don’t._

***

Maitimo closed the door to his brother’s room as quietly as he could, then turned away to lean against the cold stone of the wall, guilt weighing down upon him like a heavy fog. It was wrong, every fibre of him knew it – yet how could he withdraw the only support that ever seemed to bring his brother even a moment of peace? It was his fault, after all – Nelyafinwë, the only one who had protested against their father’s action, and he had given up too soon.

Ambarussa deserved better than him, but he would not find it.

And at least, this way, he would not take matters into his own hands. Not again – Maitimo could not bear to find him like that a second time.

Yet now the rot at his family’s core had spread to the only sacred piece of him, and he had no idea how he would ever be able to make it clean again.

_You were not supposed to know, my love,_ he shouted against the door in his mind, but he did not open it. He no longer knew if he should.

***

Findekáno did not want to see his father. He had considered ignoring the note left in his room when he returned from breakfast – perhaps he could say he had not seen it, or excuse himself with letters to write or other things to do – but sooner or later, he knew he would have to face whatever new conclusion Nolofinwë had come to.

He just wished it had been any other day apart from this one.

 “I spoke to Írissë a few days ago.”

“Oh.”

“She brought some things to my attention which I had not yet considered.”

Fingon did not answer; his father had always been proficient at the waiting game – stay silent long enough and more shall be forthcoming – and quite apart from the inherited skill he could not think of a good enough response.

“Your sister pointed out that I may have been too hasty in my judgement of your decision. Worse deeds have been done – and besides, to find happiness in times such as these is no small endeavour.” Findekáno nodded but stayed silent, looking not at his father but at some invisible distraction, and Nolofinwë swallowed a brief flicker of irritation.

“There will still be consequences, of course – you will have to deal with your own diplomatic blunders, and the rift with Turukáno is yours to mend – but overall, I suppose congratulations are in order.” He managed a smile, and waited for Findekáno to look at him properly before saying anything else.

“Thankyou, Father.” Fingon’s voice was quiet, and his answering smile did not quite seem to reach his eyes.

Nolofinwë sighed, watching his son with some concern, but decided to put Findekáno’s look of pensive sadness down to the discord that had lingered on in the household since his return. It would be alright, he told himself – his children had more than enough skill to mediate their own conflicts now that he had dealt with his.

***

Findekáno supposed he should feel happy, relieved maybe – his father had accepted his decision, even congratulated him in a slightly grudging manner – but he could not find it within himself to feel anything other than wretched worry and heartache. The sky outside the window of his chamber was bright and blue, with no cloud in sight – a mockery, he felt, as if the whole world was rubbing its joy in his face on purpose.

He sighed, and tore up the letter that lay unfinished on his desk.

_Maitimo... Please._

There was no answer.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking so long! This summer is... busy, to say the least. September, alright, that's when I'll try to figure out an update schedule. Maybe I'll do another chapter before then. :P

“What are you brooding about now?”

“Just eat the damn breakfast for once, Káno.”

Maglor sighed. “I’m not going to pass up this chance to interrogate you before you hole yourself up for the day again and refuse to speak to anyone. You’re as bad as Moryo with a hangover, and I’m -”

“Why does it matter to you?”

“Valar, Maitimo – because I’m your brother!” The exasperation in Maglor’s voice hit its peak; Maedhros finally looked up from his breakfast plate and glared at him straight on – and Maglor, rather than returning the glare, only tilted his head slightly and looked very confused.

“...Nelyo... what have you done?”

“Don’t -”

“If this is about Findekáno -”

“I said don’t! Just – leave it. It’s not your concern.”

“If you’re ruining things because of your own issues then it absolutely is my concern.”

“Again – why do you care? You didn’t even want us to be... together -”

“People change, Maitimo – and quite apart from that Findekáno doesn’t deserve to be left in the dark, or treated badly, or whatever it is that’s going on – I may not agree with everything you two have done but I do know that he’s the sweetest and nicest of our cousins, and if you were going to marry any of them then I’m damn glad you chose him.” Maglor stood up, picking up his breakfast plate and holding it close in a slightly defensive manner, and glared at Maedhros with cheeks slightly flushed in what might have been embarrassment. “Now eat your damn breakfast and then go and make things right with him.”

Maedhros stared after his brother as he left the hall, momentarily at a complete loss for words. _What the hell?_

***

“You have to write a letter of apology to Tyelpë.”

Curvo shifted uncomfortably in his saddle (Tyelko stifled a smirk), and shook his head.

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“You’re really going to be stubborn and pig-headed enough to throw away your relationship with your son over this? He didn’t even do anything wrong!”

“He’s made his opinions quite clear -”

“Curvo, we have to stick together! I know you’re not happy about this, you wanted him to damn himself right beside you – and I’m not even going to start on that right now – but we can’t afford to let this get between any of us. It’ll just play right into what Moringotto wants.”

“Would you just shut up? We’re still two days out from Himlad because of your stupid detour, and I don’t see why I should care about writing letters until we get there.”

“You just can’t stand it when I’m right.”

“Shut. Up.”

***

“Has she gone yet?”

Aegnor nodded, and poured wine for Finrod.

“Finally. I have a headache.”

“She is our sister, you know.”

“Oh, don’t act all disapproving, you hate it just as much as I do when she sits you down after dinner and explains how something horrible is probably going to happen to your love life at some point.”

“...yeah, that’s fair.”

***

Fingon knocked on his brother’s door with some hesitation. Yet another conversation he really was not in the mood to have – but he could not with a clear conscience put it off any longer. Turgon opened the door – and immediately stopped whatever he had been going to say, looking at Fingon for a long second before pulling him inside and closing the door behind him.

“What happened?”

“What?” Fingon stared at his brother – and then it hit him; what had Maitimo really done? Turgon did not answer, only watching his face, and somehow that was worse than if he had said that he could see it, if he had confirmed what Fingon had not even suspected until now – he felt as though the floor was falling away beneath him, and did not protest when Turgon guided him to sit down in a chair by the window. Clouds were gathering outside, rain-laden and dark, and Fingon watched a bird fly through the shreds of grey that hung below them, blankly staring towards the East and trying not to think of what lay beyond the mountains.

Rain brings change, so the saying was, but had the change come before the rain?

“What happened?” Turgon repeated, more gently this time, and the softness made Fingon’s eyes prickle.

“I don’t know.”

“Is he...?”

Fingon shook his head.

“He shut me out.”

And then his voice did break, and his next breath was shaky as he drew it past the lump in his throat, and _damn it_ this was not supposed to be the reason for his visit – but Turgon sat down beside him and pulled him close in a tight embrace, and he screwed up his face against the tears but some of them found their way to his brother’s shirt nonetheless, and for long minutes the only sound in the room was two sets of breathing, one steadier than the other.

“Findekáno, _hanno,_ hush... I am sorry.”

Fingon shook his head, tried to gather himself and speak steadily as he sat up and wiped his eyes with shaky hands.

“No, I – I did not come here for this, I wanted to... to apologise, for our argument when I arrived.” The words caught in his throat again, and though he did his best to stop the tremble of his lower lip he still felt like too much of a child, losing composure and ruining his intentions like this. But Turgon smiled, though it looked sad and regretful, and took Fingon’s hands in his own to keep them still.

“No, I am the one who should apologise. Yes, it was a mistake, a lack of reason on your part – but what can reason do against love?” He shook his head, and looked out of the window. The first drops of rain were beginning to fall. “Findekáno, keep hope. He is still here.”

***

Maedhros sat at his desk and stared at the blank paper in front of him without moving. The stars were covered by a heavy layer of cloud that threatened rain, and the candle on his desk burned low, wavering light glinting off the gold ribbon in his hand. The Moon was absent.

He closed his eyes, and opened the locked door.

_Findekáno._

No response. Outside, the rain fell in drops that built to torrents within moments.

_I’m sorry._


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New laptop, new chapter! (also new house, new uni, etc... busy times)
> 
> Frequency shall increase from now on. I swear it. ;)

_I’m sorry._

The words arrived dimly, as if the thought had battled through the wind-whipped rain that stretched across the miles – yet the connection had once been clear as day no matter the weather or distance. Findekáno did not dare to reach back, to push through the shrouding darkness, though his heart leapt in painful hope and the candle upon his desk flickered with sharply indrawn breath; no, he would wait. He would wait for an explanation –

_Please._

His resolve broke; warmth and desperate hope pushed out across the miles – it hurt, like walking over broken glass in thin slippers – but then Maitimo was _there,_ the door no longer closed (had there ever been a door?) and for the briefest instant love and relief washed away everything else –

And then Findekáno’s anger, crushed almost to nothing beneath sadness and fear and hope, made itself known as flames that burned them both in unseen ways.

_How could you?!_

_Finno –_

_NO! Do you have any idea – any idea at all – how it has been for me –_

_You think it was easy for me? I –_

_I don’t care! You shut me out, it’s your damned fault –_

_…I know._

_Maitimo –_

_There is nothing you can say that I have not already said to myself._

At this Findekáno was silent. His cheeks felt cold in the near-darkness; one touch confirmed the passage of quickly drying tears. Well he knew his cousin’s tendency towards self-punishment, the guilt he carried with him every day (most misplaced, some well-deserved) – it should come as no surprise that he would add this mess to the pile. And yet… somehow, he had not expected it. And he remembered, again, that he did not know the details of that terrible night.

_Findekáno?_

Concern, fear of rejection – Findekáno closed his mind to it all, closed his mind to everything but the words, and tried unsuccessfully to shut out his own emotions too. He had to find out the truth.

_…why did you do it?_

_I had no other choice._

_You have made another choice now._

_I… there are secrets in my family –_

_Our family._

_No. My family, Findekáno._

_…_

_You deserve to know. But it will hurt you – I have hurt you already, I know, but this is worse._

_Just tell me._

The darkness seemed suddenly heavier, and the candle upon Findekáno’s desk guttered and burned low.

_I cannot be faithful to you alone._

***

_Telperinquar,_

“No.”

“What?”

“Curvo, if you want to fix things between you and your son, you need to call him what he wants to be called.”

Curufin made a face and reached for a fresh piece of parchment.

_Celebrimbor,_

“No.”

“What _now?”_

“You’re his father. You’re supposed to show at least some small grain of affection –”

“What do you know about it? You’re terrible at diplomacy –”

“I have successfully kept the rest of our family from smothering you as you sleep for, oh, at least three hundred years – that takes skill, Curufinwë.” Celegorm smirked; it quite suited him, but Curufin did not particularly care for his brother’s aesthetic appeal at that moment in time.

“Shut up and get me some more parchment.”

***

“What are you doing?”

Maglor looked up; the room swam slightly in front of his eyes as he scanned the area vaguely surrounding the doorway – ah. Caranthir, easily recognisable by his shorter hair and eternally flushed face, raised one eyebrow at his brother and stepped fully into the room.

“’m drinking. Can’t you tell?” Maglor smiled, and raised a near-empty bottle in greeting.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Caranthir let out an exasperated huff and crossed the room in two long strides, snatching the bottle from Maglor’s upraised hand and draining the contents himself before setting it on the table between them with a loud bang.

“Hey-!”

“It’s been a very long day, Makalaurë, in case you hadn’t noticed – oh, but you haven’t had the opportunity, you’ve been holed up in your room drinking since breakfast yesterday. _What is your problem??”_

Maglor blinked. Caranthir glared.

Maglor reached under the table and pulled out another bottle of wine.

“Would you like me to go and get Nelyo?” The calm in Caranthir’s voice was most definitely forced – but Maglor flushed a deeper shade of pink and dropped the bottle of expensive wine. Caranthir winced as it hit the floor and broke open, the harsh sound leaving in its wake a very icy silence.

“…I – well, no. Don’t. Moryo –”

“It’s alright. I won’t – as long as you explain what the hell is going on with you, and why you just carelessly disposed of the equivalent value of an entire month’s trading with the Sindar.”

Lesser beings would surely have fainted away under the look that was now being directed at Makalaurë. Truth be told, Makalaurë didn’t feel particularly higher up than those unfortunates at this precise moment, and he was sweating uncomfortably under the fine silk of his shirt.

“Um.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Maitimo… messed things up, with, uh, with Findekáno.”

“And this affects you how exactly?”

“It… um… I…”

If the silence was any colder, the spilt wine would have frozen on the floor. Maglor mumbled something under his breath, and Caranthir stepped closer again, now towering over the brother who was second only to Maitimo in height when he could be bothered to stand up.

“What was that?”

“…don’ want to talk ‘bout it.”

“I don’t care.”

Maglor flushed a yet darker shade and stayed stubbornly silent. Caranthir paused, mentally playing back their conversation under cover of another ferocious glare – and the only conclusion that made any sense at all was rather unpleasant to think about.

“Makalaurë…”

“What?” Defensive, unwilling to take the subject any further – yes, Caranthir thought, this was definitely some kind of sensitive matter. Damn it.

“I really don’t want to be right here, but –”

“Please don’t say it.”

“Káno –”

“Don’t. Please.”

Morifinwë sighed, and bent to pick up the larger pieces of glass from the floor.

***

_My dear Celebrimbor,_

_Upon consideration of the matter it has come to my attention that my actions during our discussion of family matters could be perceived as “placing undue pressure upon a young individual” (to paraphrase your Uncle, without the many curse words). While I firmly believe in the moral certainty of our course and the need to present a united front against the Enemy, I have come to realise that such decisions must not be taken without careful consideration, perhaps without the influence of other family members. Therefore I reassure you that you are welcome among us still (your Uncle seemed to think this the most important part of the letter, though I would have thought it was obvious enough already) and there shall be no further discussion of the Oath until such time as you feel capable of approaching the subject yourself._

_Your loving Father,_

_Curufinwë_

“Satisfied? I put in that awful part that you suggested –”

“Valar, Curvo – reminding your son that he’s not an outcast now is hardly “awful” –”

“It’s unnecessary.”

“You have no comprehension of the way a child’s mind works, do you – no, just send it. It’s better than the other versions at least, though that’s hardly difficult to achieve…”

“Don’t pretend to be an expert. If this doesn’t work, I’m blaming you.”

“I would expect nothing less from you, Curvo dearest.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for discussion of suicide.

The silence stretched across the leagues between the lovers, blank and uncomprehending. Findekáno could think of nothing to say, nothing at all that could sum up the span of his emotions; that final sentence hung in his mind like a sharpened icicle in the moment before it breaks and falls. Maitimo, mercifully enough, did not press him for a response – but Findekáno could feel him waiting nonetheless, could feel the barely contained emotions that seemed almost as conflicted as his own – _what right does he have,_ he found himself thinking, _what right to feel this way when it is all his own fault?_

Too late he realised that Maitimo could hear him.

_No right at all, Findekáno._

_I didn’t mean –_

_You did. It is perfectly fair. I did not tell you of the arrangement that exists between myself and –_

_Arrangement?! Is that what you call it? And to think I once feared that our love was a taboo too far, when you –_

_Love has nothing to do with this._

_…what?_

_It is an arrangement of necessity. Without it… there would be death upon our family once more._

_I don’t understand._

_You should not have to._

_But I do have to – I am bound to you, Russandol, so tell me – damn it!_

_…I am sorry._

_Just tell me. Please._

Fingon’s room was now cold and dark, the candle long burned out. He did not care.

_…my youngest brother’s coping mechanisms for his loss are dangerous at best. I cannot trust him to be safe alone._

_So you… what?_

_I help him to find moments of peace. Nothing more than I must. Nothing more than what keeps him alive._

Findekáno hid his face in his hands, and was unsurprised to find his fingers wet with angry tears. He wondered if he should have expected this, or something like it – but how can anyone prepare for secrets such as this to come to light?

He wondered if love had made a fool of him, and if his father had been right all along.

_I would not blame you, if you thought so._

_Maitimo, no…_

_You do not have to forgive me._

_…do you want to do… that which you must?_

_No. Never. I have failed you – it is wrong in every way, and more so because I never told you of it. Words will never capture the fullness of my regret – but I am sorry._

_If words will not suffice, then come here._

_I… How?_

_Make an excuse. I did._

_…_

_…Maitimo?_

_Alright._

_You mean –_

_I will see you soon._

***

“Moryo seemed to think I should talk to you about this.”

“He thought wrong. Please go away.”

“No.”

Maglor rolled over and pulled a silk-covered pillow over his head with a groan. Maedhros sighed and walked across the room to open the window, pulling back the drapes to let bright sunlight in to the stuffy chamber. From under the pillow came a further protest, but Maedhros only crossed back to the bed and sat down in the chair to one side of the disarrayed pillows. All that could be seen of his brother was a tangled mess of dark hair, but Maedhros knew he was listening even if he would not show his face. He spoke purposefully, yet with deliberate care.

“Why does it concern you so much if I have a… slight problem in my personal life?”

“…you shouldn’t be treating him badly.” Maglor’s voice was muffled by the pillow, yet the words were more than clear enough for Maedhros to make out. He bit back the first defensive response that sprang to his lips, and waited several moments before trusting himself to reply calmly.

“Again, Káno – why does it concern you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tough. I’m not leaving – in fact, I am, but not until I can trust you to be responsible in my absence. You are not exactly filling me with confidence on that front.”

Maglor pushed the pillow away and lifted his head, bleary-eyed and frowning amidst wayward black curls, and stared at his brother.

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Why do you care so much about Findekáno and myself?”

_“Ugh.”_

“I’m waiting, Káno.”

Maglor dropped face-first back into the pillow, and stayed silent.

***

“Did he tell you?”

“Yes.”

Caranthir sat up a little straighter.

“What is it?”

“Apologies, Moryo. I promised I’d take his secret to my grave.” Maedhros smiled playfully, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Caranthir frowned.

“You wish you hadn’t pushed him to tell you.”

“Would you stop being so horribly perceptive? That’s Curufinwë’s job.”

“Sorry. What do you need me to do?”

“Stay here. Just for a little while – I hate to think what will happen if I leave the fortress under Makalaurë’s control with him in this state.” Caranthir nodded and made a note on a piece of paper that lay on his desk, already covered in neatly written dates and monetary sums.

“Anything else?”

“If Amras wants to leave, let him. If not… keep an eye on him, please.”

“Of course.”

***

Telperinquar stared at the letter that lay before him, the crisp precision of his father’s folds still visible on the smoothed parchment.

He would have to go back.

There was no question about that; this was as good an admission of wrongdoing as he was ever likely to get from his father – though even he hesitated to give it the title of apology. It was just – he did not really want to. Yes, it was cold and unfriendly here on this hill in the middle of nowhere; but then it was cold and unfriendly in an entirely different way in the halls of his father.

Sometimes he did not know which was worse.

***

“You’re leaving?”

“Only for a short while.”

“Oh.”

“Amras –”

“No, I’m still not going to promise you anything.” Amras’ voice was calm, his eyes downcast and flat, and Maedhros managed not to outwardly show the disappointment that now tinged his ever-present worry.

“…I understand.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I understand enough to know why you can’t promise. But please try.”

“Nelyo, stop asking.”

***

That night Maitimo wondered a total of fourteen times if he was doing the right thing. He did not cry – long ago he had learned to keep a tight lid on his emotions (though never quite tight enough) – but through the uncomfortably fractured bond he felt Findekáno’s tears as if they were his own. He did not know if it was intentional on Findekáno’s part, though he felt he certainly deserved the discomfort if it was – but that did not matter. What mattered was that every last bit of it was his fault.

In fact, he reflected with carefully managed dispassion, everything that was currently going wrong within his family could quite easily be named as his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you really want to know more about my take on Amras, go here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5848813
> 
> But please do heed the tag warnings.


	31. Chapter 31

“You’ve moved on from your childish little tantrum, then? Decided to grace us with your presence once more?”

Celebrimbor did not reply. He knew that the ‘discussion’ would be over soon enough, and then he and his father would go back to pretending that everything was fine. Opening his mouth would only give Curufinwë another reason to be angry with him.

“It is _unacceptable,_ Telperinquar, to use your own issues as an excuse to sow discord within our family. We must present a united front against all our enemies - and you are not exactly helping.” Curufin sat calmly in his chair at the end of the room, Celegorm beside him - dual thrones for their halls, though they had never yet claimed them as such. But Celegorm was quiet, and Celebrimbor would have assumed he was merely bored were it not for the silent tension in his crossed legs and the forced stillness that lingered about him. Yet Curufin - he was calm, as though the harsh words he spoke were only a gentle reprimand - but his steel eyes betrayed hard anger nonetheless. Still Celebrimbor did not speak, did not move though all he wanted was to turn and run from the cold stone hall with all the speed he could gather.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

Celebrimbor shook his head, and looked rather at his uncle than his father - but Celegorm did not return the glance.

“Go, then. I noted that you did not train while we stayed with your uncle; I shall expect you in the yard before sundown.”

Celebrimbor left, and Celegorm turned to look at his brother with one eyebrow arched in scathing comment.

“Is there a problem?”

“Yes, you’re a total ass.”

“Excuse me?”

Celegorm pushed himself up from his chair and paced halfway down the hall before turning and walking back as if working out barely contained energy; frustration at least was evident in each quick stride.

“Do you think you’re helping him, by making him hate you?” He stopped just in front of Curufin, his broad height lending him an advantage as he blocked the light from his brother’s face - but Curufin remained seated, and barely bothered to look up.

“I think it’s none of your business.”

“It is _unacceptable,_ Curufinwë, to use your own issues as an excuse to screw up your son for the rest of his life--”

Surely, Tyelkormo reflected, somewhere between snarled curses and heated contact, there should come a day when he would stop provoking his little brother on purpose - but not today.

***

Caranthir looked up from his papers at the sound of running footsteps, and wrinkled his nose slightly as Maglor dropped a crumpled piece of parchment on his desk.

“I’m going hunting. This is for Nelyo - you can look in it if you like, but you won’t find any of those dark secrets you’ve been poking after.”

The mildly offended expression on Caranthir’s face seemed fairly sincere, but he did not deny the accusation. Instead he looked up at his brother, studying the shadows under his eyes, the hair pulled back in a braid less complex and careful than was usually seen, with dark curls escaping in little wisps around his ears - Caranthir nodded, and looked away.

“Don’t be gone too long. And do try to bring back something more appetising than another new song, if you wouldn’t mind.” Now it was Maglor’s turn to look offended, but Caranthir only smirked.

***

Amras met Maglor at the gates.

“I want to come with you.”

“What?”

“I want to get out of here, same as you. I… can I come with you?”

“…of course. I’ll wait here while you get a horse.” Maglor watched Amras hurry off towards the stables, and shook his head as if to clear a strange thought. What reason could this possibly have - Amras, who had been notorious for hunting alone ever since… ever since a long time ago. Why now - and why with him?

***

Findekáno watched a chill dawn creep slowly up the grey sky, and waited. The day was wet and glum, with no trace of the crisp frost which usually accompanied such pallid skies - such a morning felt like the familiar disappointment of waking from a pleasant dream. He knew that sensation too well.

There, upon the mist-shrouded horizon - his cousin’s horse. But the swift excitement such a sight had always brought him was absent; its poor replacement only a dull sense of apprehension and a small flicker of almost painful hope.

***

“You’re still upset.”

The statement was quiet, so that Maglor almost missed it - his brother had not spoken a word since they left some hours ago (not that he had expected any different), and Amras did not even look at him as he said it.

“Yes. So?”

“You told Nelyo why.”

Maglor could have imagined the accusatory tinge those words carried - but his ear was very seldom wrong. He sighed and looked away, across the fog-cloaked landscape to the darkly forested foothills, and it seemed all was still in that land save for themselves.

“If you came with me to try and make me tell you, you’re wasting your time.”

Many moments passed before Maglor glanced across the space between them to seek a response from his brother - but Amras stayed silent for longer, and did not look at Maglor once. At last he spoke, as the damp breeze dropped away towards nothing and they came upon the first outcrops of the forest.

“That’s not why I came.”

Maglor felt the quiet words more than he heard them - there was a great deal more to feel than to hear. Disappointment, maybe; reluctance (but for what?), some certain, bitter resolve (to do what?) - and at the last, plain vulnerability. He reined in his horse, just inside the trees, and caught his brother’s unwilling gaze.

“What is it?”

The silence was absolute, as if their moment hung upon a dew-laced thread.

“Will you sing for me?”

Of all the questions Makalaurë had expected to hear, that had not numbered even among the most unlikely. Amras had not stayed to listen to a song for a longer time than he wished to remember.

“I… Of course. But I - of what would you have me sing?”

Silence, again, somehow thicker than before.

“Of my brother.”

Maglor did not have to ask which one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Resolution for 2017 - write something, anything, no matter how small, every day.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for suicide (nothing graphic. Elves are weird.)
> 
> This is the first major break from canon.

The rain had still not yet begun to fall, but the clouds seemed to droop mistily lower with each passing minute as Findekáno waited outside the gates. Every sound was amplified in the stillness, from the gentle dripping of the bare branches above Fingon’s head to the faint clatter from the faraway kitchens. The smell of wet earth lingered in the air - a scent which on any other day would have been refreshing, yet Fingon was far too on edge to enjoy it. The calm, peaceful stillness felt nothing but stifling. He closed his eyes, trying and failing to focus only on his senses and shut out the circle of anxious thoughts looping back and forth in his mind.

_What if he didn’t want to come?_

_What if he doesn’t want me any more?_

_What if he says he won’t try again?_

_…what if I don’t want to try again?_

“Findekáno.” Quiet, soft, an apology hiding in the breath. Guilty, loving.

Fingon opened his eyes.

Maitimo’s gaze was older, sadder, full of uncertainty. Deep red hair pulled back in a single braid and unadorned, pale cheeks and closed lips turned down just slightly at the corners - Findekáno realised a minute had passed without him speaking, and swallowed nervously to try and dispel the dizzy anticipation that had been growing in his mind. Had he imagined that it was between both their minds?

“Maitimo.” His voice was too unsteady, utterly empty of the bitter anger he had felt even until the night before. It all seemed pointless now.

“I’m sorry.” Findekáno felt more relief than he had expected - to hear it from Maitimo’s lips, calm and genuine, was so different from the fraught exchange of thought that had brought nothing but more pain for them both. The sweet scent of damp flowers came to them on a barely noticed shifting of the air, and slowly clarity seemed to grow in the space between their minds.

Their hands brushed and met, fingers tangled together in an instinctive need for touch that neither of them had decided upon. It was warmth and safety, despite the uncertainty which lingered still about them - and Findekáno would be the first to admit that he had sorely missed such feelings.

“Can I kiss you?” Findekáno’s voice did not sound like his own. Maitimo’s reply was quiet, surprised.

“Of course.”

Maitimo tasted like sorrow and relief and hope, like regret and imperfections, like love.

_Russandol…_

Sweet and gentle, the rain began to fall.

***

“Findekáno, you don’t have to forgive me -”

“Hush. I have missed you too much for you to spoil this by talking.”

They sat together before the fire, on a low couch in Fingon’s chambers, as slowly the light faded from the sky outside. Findekáno was braiding Maitimo’s hair with his own ribbons, and for a long while the quiet crackle and hiss of the fire was the only sound in the room. A candle burned by the window, its flame undisturbed by any draught though still the gentle rain came streaming down in the gathering night outside.

Findekáno finished the last braid, and pulled Maitimo back to him until they were in each other’s arms, curled close together in the warmth of the chamber.

“You are wearing too many clothes,” murmured Findekáno, and Maitimo smiled a little.

“Maybe I am, but they are not coming off until we have talked.”

Fingon lifted his head and looked up at his cousin - his husband - with some trepidation. Uncertainty stirred again in his heart, which had all but dissipated in the brief hours since Maitimo’s arrival.

“…what do you wish to talk about?”

“The fact that you deserve someone who would treat you better than I.”

“No!” It was as if ice had been poured into Findekáno’s heart. He sat up, searching Maitimo’s eyes for some easier truth than those terrible words. “You can’t - I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care what mess you’ve made, what terrible things your family has done and still has yet to do - I only care that you would shut me out.” He paused, drawing an unsteady breath meant to calm, an attempt to slow the flow of fearful words - it felt too loud in the enclosed quiet. “Russandol… If you still love me - let me love you too. Please.”

Silence stretched from heartbeat to heartbeat.

And then Maitimo kissed him, and tears fell as he closed his eyes, and it was perfect.

***

High in the trees above the two brothers, a little bird fell silent, watching. Or rather - it was listening, for the song was more potent than any shapes or colours of sight could ever hope to be.

It was a song of family, of beauty, of love. A song of memory and hope - and of endings, of inescapable loss dancing lightly at the edges of the sunlight, of darkness that not even the brightest stars could outshine.

The bird saw silvery eyes half-closed, lost in concentration and memories and the pure intensity of artistic creation. It saw red hair bright against the dull bark of the trees, the same shade as bitter winter berries, and slowly it saw cold-flushed cheeks grow pale and the glimmer of tears slipping downward to find the earth. Feelings floated up around it, emotions never meant for little birds to feel - a twin-stringed spiral of light and dark, of hope and despair, of love and of pain - and then, gradually, washing away like steaming breath upon cold winds, one strand of those feelings withdrew. It faded to nothing, dissipating into the cold silence which hid behind the music, and if the bird had known how to listen it would have heard the whisper of a call, a response, and a flight that no eyes could see.

The song did not change, the dark-haired figure still wrapped up in his music - but there was an emptiness in the clearing below the trees, and the little bird fluffed its feathers uncomfortably at the chill of it.

It saw skilled fingers upon a small harp, and empty fingers that did not move.

It heard the song ending, with beauty so piercing its tiny mind was near-overflowing, filled with power it could not hope to comprehend.

It saw one pair of eyes open, and one stay silently closed.

Time passed strangely slower for several lingering seconds, and the bird’s tiny clawed feet felt stuck to the branch it rested on.

It felt the warmth beneath the trees freeze in a wave of horror that its limited experiences had no name for.

The branches around it were empty, but it had almost forgotten how to fly away - and then another song began, a song of binding and recovering, of finding and returning and safe-keeping, yet it was all shot through with desperation and denial and even anger - the bird did not understand, and had it been able to choose - it would not have wanted to understand.

The song faded after only moments.

The bird saw the small harp flung against a tree to crack and splinter, and suddenly the spell was broken - and terror of unknowns too huge and awful for a tiny, innocent creature drove it away at last, flying high and calling out for its own siblings.

Over the sound of its frantic wings, a broken cry of anguish and failure followed it up to the sky.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm sorry this has taken me six months. Two reasons:
> 
> 1) I finally started figure skating. Lifelong dream, takes up many more hours in the week than anything outside of university rightfully should. I'm very happy about this.
> 
> 2) Doubt about the direction I've ended up taking this story. I still don't know if I should have made that break with canon, and I may end up rewriting the last several chapters. Or I might not - it depends if I can keep things going like this, and if you readers (do I have any left?) are still enjoying it. I will continue in one way or another.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think, preferably in that nice white box at the bottom of the page ;)

Maglor did not know how much time had passed, but the sky was dark and the stars veiled. Silence pressed thickly against the clearing and buzzed low inside his ears. His eyes stung with heat that had long run dry, and his voice ached from cries he could barely remember - the hours were a blur behind him, grief and failure smearing long moments into one painful, unrelenting streak.

He could not look away from his brother’s face.

Amras looked _peaceful._ Maglor could recall with bitter clarity the last time he had seen that expression - in a different land, under a different light. It hurt to think of.

_It is over,_ he thought, and hated himself for it.

***

As soon as Fingon awoke he knew that something was very wrong. The sheets were cold beside him, and before he even opened his eyes he could sense the fracture in what little peace they had stolen for themselves that night. The bitter disappointment that welled up as he pushed himself up against the pillows was short-lived, however; it would have been foolish to expect more than a few hours’ reprieve. All the candles had burned out, and the hush in his chamber seemed unnatural in a way which only deepened his concern.

He could see Maedhros outlined by moonlight at the window, still as ice shards on a windless night, staring out eastward as though with enough will it would be possible to see through the mountains and all the way to Himring. And he could feel something awful veiled at the other end of their newly repaired connection.

_Maitimo -_

_He’s gone._

Fingon did not ask who. With all that had come to pass between them, he did not need to. He walked to the window in silence, and in silence wound his arms gently around his lover to keep out the chill of the night air.

_It’s not your fault._

In silence, Maitimo wept.

***

The night was moonless, starless, lightless. Maglor gathered dead wood in silence. He had no way of reaching his brothers, no way of gathering them all together unless by waiting, by taking Ambarussa back to Himring - no. He could not bear that.

And so, they would be alone. And Makalaurë would not sing.

The sky remained dark as he built the pyre. He took the smoothest piece of wood that he had found, and carved it in the shadow of full night. He cut his fingers twice, and did not care.

Upon the bloodstained surface were drawn his brother’s names, the star of their House, and a boat shaped like a swan.

***

An unforgiving wind whipped around Himring, and Caranthir was uneasy. He pushed aside the stack of papers on his desk - trade agreements, letters that needed answering, references to the precarious financial situations of his brothers - and wondered if this lonely sense of foreboding was what Maitimo felt all the time. Never had he supervised the fortress alone before, in the middle of nowhere on this outlying, windswept half-peak; certainly he was alone most of the time in his own stronghold, but there was something about this place in particular that chilled him to his core.

Or was there, he wondered as he listened to the high wailing of the wind, something more to it than simple loneliness?

That single thought crystallised unease into dread, and he knew that something, somewhere, was terribly wrong.

***

Flames reached curling fingers up towards the sky. Wind stirred slowly in the branches, breaking the heavy silence of burning that cracked and hissed without accompaniment.

To Maglor, shrouded in grief, the only thing missing was the scent of the Sea.

***

Curufin awoke, shivering and tangled in his sheets.

_Tyelko._

Silence, seconds slid by, and his door opened.

“Another dream?” Celegorm’s voice was many tones more hushed than usual.

_No._

The silence grew heavier as Celegorm crossed the room to sit on Curufin’s bed. Curufin did not speak - he did not trust himself to, after what he had seen.

Maybe it could be reasoned away as a nightmare, but the empty ache somewhere in his spirit said otherwise. He wondered if Tyelko could feel it too - the emptiness, the aching space where something had been pulled away.

He wondered if Tyelkormo knew that their brother was dead.

***

By the time the sun rose, the blackened wood was crumbling inwards to become ashes. Maglor did not remember touching anything after the fire was lit, yet somehow thick grey ash was on his hands and in his hair and stinging the corners of his eyes. He did not care.

He had burned his harp too, or what remained of it. His music - his _gift,_ the only piece of joy left in this bitter land - it had led to this. _He would have found another way,_ Makalaurë told himself, but he did not believe it for a moment. It was too easy to blame himself, too familiar - too damned poetic, with that elegant sense of painful inevitability wrapped up in something which would be a beautiful story had it happened to anyone but them.

Then, as many times before and since, he knew quite clearly that their own story would end in tragedy (oh, but it would be a tragedy to sing of through the ages - surely, they would be remembered).

Then, as many times before and since, he felt sick with doubt and fear, and the longing for home - for _home,_ not the chilled stones of Maitimo’s fortress or the coldly windswept grasses of his own lands.

And then, as many times before and since - the unfading impression of binding flame upon his fëa reminded him exactly how futile such thoughts were.

No, they would be here until the end.

Perhaps his little brother had had the right idea after all.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmm I know, I know, it's been too long again.
> 
> After this (or maybe after the next) will probably be a bit of timeskipping in order to get to the next exciting parts a little faster.

Caranthir watched the dawn from the window of his chamber, hands resting upon the night-chilled stone sill. Something kept him there, drawing his gaze to the forest, long after the Sun had climbed above the horizon and turned its light upon his face in an attempt to dazzle his view. As the weak rays warmed his face he thought briefly of the last time his eyes had been daunted by light; long ago, on his naming day under the Trees themselves, he had gazed directly upon Laurelin at noon with immature vision. Even then, it had not been painful. He looked up directly at the sky, dark eyes fully open and clear, and when he at last dropped his gaze the fields and trees below seemed dimmer than before; a mere shadow of what they should be - of what they could be, under the light that was lost.

But it was no use to dwell upon such things. He turned his attention to the crumpled paper left upon his desk, ignoring the nagging pull of his mind towards the shadowed forest; Makalaurë’s message, brought up from his main desk in Maitimo’s offices but left otherwise untouched. It was the work of a moment to smooth out the parchment, and little more than that to decipher his brother’s familiar handwriting (messy and jagged around the edges, with tight central curls - a world away from the practised, perfect script he used for official correspondences).

_Nelyo,_

_You knew I didn’t want to tell you. I am sure you knew that the answer would only make things worse. One day your stubbornness will kill you, I am sure of it, but I can only say that I hope you do not expect me to show up to whatever important diplomatic meeting you have scheduled next._

_I am going hunting, and when I return I will be leaving for my own lands without delay. If you are not back by then, I will not wait for you - whether you have reconciled with him or been murdered by his entire family is none of my concern, as I am sure they would receive me with even less of a welcome. But as you know, I hope for his sake that you sort your shit out._

_If you want something enough, you know full well that you don’t give up on it._

_Káno_

Caranthir frowned as he folded the letter into neat quarters before dropping it back onto the desk. The words were cryptic enough - but he already had a semi-formed guess, and enough clues remained between the phrases that he could easily draw a conclusion or two. He supposed it made sense, after all --

A careless glance out of the window showed him two slow-moving horses, with a single rider leading, and suddenly he knew.

***

The wind whipped Maedhros’ hair across his face as he rode, obscuring his sight, and he let himself believe it was only that which drew sharp water from his eyes as the sun rose ahead of him.

He had _failed._

And if he accepted the inevitability of it to ease the guilt - then there was no excuse for what he had done in attempts to gift his brother with moments of peace. No excuse for the pain he had caused Findekáno.

No excuse for his failure, or no excuse for his transgressions.

***

Maglor dismounted before the gates of Himring, and stared up at the stones without seeing them. The horses wandered in through the stone archway, well accustomed to coming home even without direction, and then he was alone.

He fell to his knees upon the thin grass, tears mixing with ash to draw black lines down his cheeks as the reality of what he had done began to fully settle in his mind. It had been almost a dream, the terrible night and dazed return journey, but now he had arrived, _alone,_ and this was no nightmare from which he could awaken. He had - he had --

The essence of it was, though he had in truth been but a bystander turning a blind eye to the direction he was pointing: _he had killed his own brother._

Caranthir found him there not long after, lying exhausted and ash-covered and barely responsive, and plucked the truth where it was offered up upon the surface of his brother’s mind.

“You’re an idiot if you blame yourself,” he said, but his voice cracked halfway through, and Maglor turned his face away.

The wind hissed around the stones of the fortress, cold and lonely, and scraped thin whistles from the grasses to cover the sounds of grief.

***

“Pick up your sword, Telperinquar.”

Celebrimbor looked up at his father from where he lay sprawled in the dirt, and it was barely less than a glare. Curufin’s gaze was cold and unyielding, and he had hardly broken a sweat after over an hour of sparring; his son was an untidy mess, bruises beginning to bloom under his leathers and his hair coming loose from its braid, and they were both thoroughly fed up with each other.

“Pick up your sword.”

“Fuck off.”

The colour drained from Celebrimbor’s face as he realised that he had spoken aloud - but all that followed was a long, uncomfortable silence in which Curufin stared at him with an entirely unreadable expression, and then Celebrimbor recoiled to an embarrassing degree at the loud, jarring sound of Curufin’s sword landing on the ground beside him.

When he looked up again, it was to the noise of his father slamming the door as he left.

Silence echoed for several long moments - then Celegorm laughed, and unfolded himself from the shadows at the edge of the room. Celebrimbor startled even worse than before, kicking his father’s sword away from himself by accident, and flushed in chagrin as Celegorm walked over to him with an amused expression.

“Get up, boy.”

This time, Celebrimbor followed the instruction. Celegorm picked up Curufin’s sword, shifted it in his hand a few times and levelled a considering glance down the length of the blade - then swung for his nephew with speed almost beyond sight.

Celebrimbor blocked out of sheer luck, stumbling back from the ringing force of it, and barely met the next stroke in time. His uncle fought differently from his father, and they did not often spar - where Curufin was calculating and methodical, Celegorm was wild, his unpredictability a strength which more than covered any gaps in his overall strategy. Curufin had taught his son to plan, to categorise an opponent’s weaknesses within the first seconds of a match and take full advantage - but the recognisable patterns were all missing from this fight, and Celebrimbor was tired, and it was less than half a minute before he was knocked flat in the dirt for possibly the fourteenth time that day.

Celegorm smirked and shook his head, walking casually away to set the blade down and leaving Celebrimbor to get up in his own time - which he did, silently and without complaint.

“I think, Tyelpë, a balance has to be found between speaking your mind and respecting your elders.”

Celebrimbor said nothing.

“I, of course, am firmly on the former side - I believe I was less than twenty years old the first time I told _my_ father to, uh, _fuck off._ But unfortunately, dearest Curvo comes down rather heavily on the latter side, and you just so happen to be stuck with him as your direct superior.” Celegorm smiled; the expression was not particularly pleasant. “I will take care of things this time - after all, your father’s mood today was not your fault -” and here his expression changed, a shadow seeming to fleet across it, and Celebrimbor wondered uneasily what the true source of Curufin’s ill temper might be, “- but in future, at least attempt to keep a better hold upon your tongue.”

Celegorm turned to leave then without waiting for an answer, but at the door he glanced back for a moment, and the amusement was back around the edges of his lips.

“But, ah, Tyelpë - don’t tell your father - that was more than a little satisfying to watch. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Then Celebrimbor was alone in the lofty emptiness of the training barn, fighting the urge to take his sword to every bit of equipment in the place.


End file.
